


These Thorny Heavens

by Alyss_Baskerville



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Bisexual Male Character, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, Cultural Differences, Cunnilingus, Despair, Disregards Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fake Marriage, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Foreplay, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Identity Issues, Internalized Misogyny, Loss of Virginity, Love Triangles, Major Original Character(s), Male-Female Friendship, Manipulation, Marriage Proposal, Marriage of Convenience, Mental Health Issues, Misogyny, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Not LaCE compliant, Obsessive Behavior, Oral Sex, Original Character-centric, Political Alliances, Politics, Prostitution, Redemption, References to Depression, Romantic Angst, Secret Identity, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, non-canon characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2019-09-14 01:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 100,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16903635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyss_Baskerville/pseuds/Alyss_Baskerville
Summary: "I am your daughter and not your servant."_________________________Nymíriel had never doubted that her wildness was correct. It was right. It encompassed what she was and who she was, and she was not about to change that, no matter who tried to stand in her way.Even when her folly caused death and destruction, she would sooner send herself into exile than surrender that part of herself.I will not give up,she told herself over and over again.But giving up was never necessary in the first place.A/N: This was originally a reader-insert story, but I changed it to an OFC as I feel that it's fairer and more accurate to the readers.





	1. Chapter 1

**_{Nymíriel Faceclaim: Kim Hyuna}_ **

**_I tried to find a girl that was beautiful but not exactly in a traditional, princess-classic way. I thought Hyuna was gorgeous but with this kind of fine balance between delicate and sharp in her beauty that I picture Nymíriel to have (probably because of the kind of character I plan to make her). One thing to note is that, because she's Noldorin, she has blue eyes._**

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**_[[P.S. I hope that wasn't too many images.]]_ **

**_Enjoy!_ **

* * *

 

"Father-" Nymíriel attempted again, searching Elrond's cold, stony gaze for any hint of emotion. Her search was unsuccessful. How many years had her father spent learning to master his emotions? Did she even stand the slightest chance of detecting how he was feeling? Oh yes, it was plain to see that there was disappointment and anger, but what  _else?_

"Do not speak," Elrond ordered, his voice eerily calm. As far back as she could remember, Nymíriel had no recollection of her father shouting. He had no need of it. 

Nymíriel did not listen to her father. She rarely ever had. 

"I am sorry, Father, I truly am," she pleaded. The reality of what she had done was of so great a magnitude that it was barely sinking into her. She knew, of course, but she didn't want to think about the  _weight_ of her actions. 

"Nymíriel," Arwen whispered from behind her. Her sister's face already-pale face was so stark white that it appeared to have a gray tinge. Arwen's lovely ocean-blue eyes were still wide with the trauma of the tragedy that has just fallen upon her home. Six maids and seven serving boys dead, thirteen maids and eleven serving boys wounded. Elrond's tapestry of his beloved wife, Celebrian, was shredded as well, although Nymíriel was well aware that her father was far more concerned with the casualties and injuries than the tapestry. 

"I warned you against bringing that Warg into Rivendell," Elrond said sternly. "And yet you insisted on being stubborn, and look where it has led us." Nymíriel was perceptive enough to hear the note of jagged fury in his voice. He was right - he had warned her. Yet she had refused to listen, and elves had lost their lives for her obstinance. The lump in her throat thickened until Nymíriel could barely breathe.

"Just this once, Nymíriel," her father continued, "Would it have destroyed you so to listen to me?" 

Nymíriel could not give him an answer. She had no refutation for the accusing tone in her father's voice. She couldn't blame him for it, either. Elrond was wise, kind, patient, and steadfast. She knew that he did everything he did for her sake, but she had never been someone comfortable with doing what she was just  _told._

Just this one time.

But it had never been possible for Nymíriel. Since birth, she was wild and rebellious. She refused to be controlled; it was not in her nature to be shackled or regulated. She knew that adhering to rules was not necessarily a bad thing, but she could not help it. It was not her nature. 

"I am truly so sorry, Father," she said at last. She had nothing else to say, nothing she could possibly justify herself with. She was so utterly foolish to find a wounded Warg and, partially from compassion, partially from curiosity, bring him to Rivendell to be healed. The Warg had indeed recovered - and then, in the dark of night, had proceeded to wreak havoc among the town. Why hadn't she thought of the risks before? Arwen, her father, they had both tried to warn her, and she had ignored them. 

Such a fool. Such a blind, shortsighted fool. 

She had failed to realize just how furious Elrond was with her, however. It was understandable; she had been the indirect cause of the deaths of some of his subjects, and yet, she had never in her wildest nightmares imagined that he'd go this far. 

"Leave my sight, Nymíriel," Elrond said coldly. "If you were not my daughter, this would not have happened."

* * *

Nymíriel's blue eyes felt puffy from crying. 

She did not know why her father's words hurt so much. This was hardly the first time he had scolded her for her misdeeds, and she had learned to develop thick skin. But going as far as to imply that he wished she was not his daughter? That was too much for Nymíriel to bear.

Despite her rebellion, she loved her father. She truly did. He was a good, strong, wise elf, one who'd endured the sorrow of losing his wife, and only the Valar knew what else, before that. Celebrian had been traumatized following her capture and torture by Orcs. When she had returned, she had not been herself, and, no longer willing to remain in Middle Earth, Nymíriel's mother had set sail for Valinor. Elrond had not tried to stop her, even though it meant separation from his wife, perhaps forever. Nymíriel did not know if she would have had the selflessness to let the one she loved go in such a way. But her father did. 

She would bring nothing but shame onto him. And how could she continue with her everyday routine here, in her father's constant presence, knowing that he did not want her to be his daughter? That he was even justified in his wish? She had caused the deaths of his subjects; how could he want her? 

How could she stay here?

Nymíriel stood from her bed. Her sensitive eyes were able to see easily in the dark. Walking to her mirror, she peered at her reflection. Picking up her hairbrush from her vanity, she drew it through her hair. Unlike Arwen, whose locks were always in perfect order, Nymíriel had to brush out some tangles and smooth her tresses down before plaiting them into a braid, falling down her left shoulder. Once she was finished, she opened a drawer and stared at the small [comb](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0187/3984/products/wedding-hair-combs-beautiful-petal-ivory-pearl-crystal-comb-danielle-2.jpg?v=1520961514) lying inside it.

It had been a gift from her father on her fourteenth name day. When she was younger, Nymíriel had refused to ever take it out of her hair save for when she was bathing and sleeping - she treasured it so much. Now that she was prone to going on spontaneous journeys to sate her endless curiosity (much to the disapproval of her father, he always insisted on seeing her off), she had taken to keeping it in the inner pocket of her favorite tunic, one she wore when she traveled. 

But she did not think she could keep it now. If she was to leave and never return, she did not think she could bear the sight of that comb. Placing it down on her vanity, Nymíriel began to gather what was necessary.

**~**

Nymíriel tiptoed quietly through the halls of her home. This late at night, even the servants had retired to their chambers. All was still. As long as she was quiet, she would not be caught.

Elves did not require sleep like men, but they found it very invigorating and often slept by choice after a period of long wakefulness. Nymíriel knew that her father had not slept or even entered meditative state in several days, too preoccupied with what his duties commanded; he also insisted on walking amongst the Silvan elves in Rivendell and hearing their opinions of their living conditions. Her father always strove to improve the lives of his people, and it was not uncommon for him to forgo his own rest for their sakes, as he had been doing for quite a while now. 

Besides, during her earlier conversation with him, when he had said...that to her, she distinctly remembered seeing signs of stress and weariness on his face. Nymíriel prayed that her intuition was right; that her father was asleep. Arwen, she knew, was already slumbering. As her sister's room was in the same hall as hers, she had heard Arwen and her maids bidding each other a pleasant sleep. 

Slipping into Arwen's room as quickly as possible, Nymíriel stealthily made her way to her sister's bed. Arwen's beautiful face was illuminated in the faint moonlight penetrating her curtains. Her inky black hair fanned out about her pillow, and her pale skin seemed to almost glow. 

Nymíriel had been told that she and her sister were of equal beauty, and Arwen had admitted that she felt that Nymíriel was more beautiful than she was. To Nymíriel, it was ludicrous. Arwen was like Luthien reincarnated, and she was just...Nymíriel. She wondered if it was a natural thing to look at yourself and see someone less beautiful than how others perceived you. 

"I am sorry, Arwen," she whispered. "That we cannot bond as sisters further. I wanted to see the moment you were wed to a man that you truly loved. I know you have always longed for it, even since we were young." She hesitated, not knowing what else to say.

"Take care of Father in my stead. You are a better daughter to him than I could ever hope to be. You will be enough for him in my absence, I know it." She stared at her sister, trying to burn her face into her memory so she would not forget.

"Goodbye, Arwen."

Arwen's ears twitched ever-so-slightly, but she did not wake.

Taking her leave of her sister, Nymíriel made her way down more winding halls, stopping at the chambers that Elladan and Elrohir shared. Her older brothers were not here at the moment; they had been sent to the realm of Greenwood the Great, ruled by King Thranduil. She had not seen them in almost a year. Nymíriel was closer to her brothers than her sister. It was them who had begun teaching her the ways of the sword, bow and arrow, and dagger. It had been them who'd allowed her to accompany them into the woods at her begging. The three of them had received a rather long scolding from their father afterwards, but it had been worth it. After enduring Elrond's stern admonishing, they had taken her to her room, after which the three siblings had fallen into a fit of laughter. 

Nymíriel wished she could see them one more time, at least. In the future, if their paths crossed, she would have to do her best to avoid them at all costs. 

She entered the rooms, finding the two beds, side-by-side, neatly made. Their satin sheets showed not a hint of disarray, the pillows were perfectly straight, and the blankets were spread about the length of the bed, neat and tidy. Nymíriel would have preferred that the chamber was messy. It certainly had been when Elladan and Elrohir had inhabited them, but the maids had removed all sign of her brothers. She sighed and, not knowing what else to do, laid down on one bed. This was Elladan's; she could make out faint wisps of his scent. She moved to Elrohir's bed and found that the same applied. 

Nymíriel closed her eyes. This was the closest she could hope to get to seeing her brothers one last time. She wanted Elrohir to pat her head, laughing at her protests, and for Elladan to tickle her mercilessly and not stop until she was flushed and breathless from laughter. She wanted to hear their identical voices that she could somehow tell apart effortlessly, reassuring her that things would be alright.

But that was impossible. 

"I love you both," Nymíriel whispered, burying her face in Elrohir's pillow. She felt a sudden and overwhelming urge to stay here and close her eyes, but if she lingered any longer she might be too late. And so, she forced herself to her feet and left the rooms, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Nymíriel wound her way through more corridors until she arrived at her father's chambers, savoring the sight of them like she never before had. It would be her last time. She strained her ears to hear anything, but could not pick up any sound coming from the rooms. Praying to the Valar that it meant her father was indeed asleep, she cracked the door open. The room was dark, but at the far corner, her keen eyes made out the slumbering form of Elrond, motionless on his ornate bed. 

Putting all of her ambush skills to use, Nymíriel crept to his bedside. Her father's face was fixed and relaxed, and it made her glad to see that he was peaceful, at least while he was sleeping. 

She tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to her. Would she say that she was proud to be his daughter? Grateful for his love and support that had constantly been with her during her lifetime? Apologize for what her recklessness had brought to the valley he ruled and guided?  _Oh, Adar, if only I could have done for you what you have always done for me..._

Reaching into the pocket of her tunic, Nymíriel pulled out the comb he had gifted her with so many years ago. She placed it gently on the nightstand next to his bed before gazing upon her Elrond's face. He had no idea that she was about to leave Rivendell forever. She did not belong here. 

"You will always be the best father in the world to me," Nymíriel whispered. 

Elrond stirred gently in his sleep, causing her heart to lurch sickeningly, but he did not wake. Sighing in relief, Nymíriel tore her eyes from her father, turned, and made to leave the room.

She could not help glancing back one last time, however.

**~**

"We must go, Swiftwind," Nymíriel whispered, guiding her favorite mount gently by his reins. Swiftwind was a magnificent [stallion](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/thebellasara/images/e/e0/Thunder_protecting_a_foal.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20140630192253) of glossy pitch-black - his lustrous mane, dark as Nymíriel 's own (newly-brushed and tied) locks, fell down his powerful neck and shoulders. His equally dark tail swished in confusion at the situation. Nymíriel understood. She always had her father and sister to see her off when she left on another travel, but not this time. 

No one could notice she was gone, not until it was too late, anyway. 

She had a supply of Lembas bread and water to last her a moon, her sword, [Vhagar](https://i.imgur.com/DmGEz4R.jpg)  _(note: the one to the far left-hand side)_ , her pair of twin [daggers](http://www.medievalcollectibles.com/images/Product/large/401472.png) - she had always preferred simplicity - and she was wearing her traveling [cloak](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/cd/b9/ff/cdb9ff291680a0e086ef5b632048808c.jpg) over her black and gray [tunic](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/90/09/40/900940b751c684e38de087c11462d436.jpg) - her favorite. Slung over her back was the [bow ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/e7/33/56/e73356138be6d5787ea2b931f267f239.gif)her father had personally commissioned for her, as well as a quiver of arrows. Doing a mental check and confirming that she was not missing anything, Nymíriel vaulted onto Swiftwind's back, settling in the saddle. She patted his sturdy neck reassuringly before spurring him forth. It was unwise to gallop so early into her journey, but Nymíriel felt that she would break down and decide to stay if she did not get away quickly.

Her father was right; if she was not his daughter, those maids, those serving boys, never would have died. If it had not been for her - her impulsivity, her thoughtlessness, her rash nature - then they would not have had to lose their lives so soon. Some of them were not even as old as her, and she was quite young. He wished she was not his daughter, and she understood his sentiment. If her own daughter had caused the demises of her servants, she would not her either.

Rivendell, her father, Arwen - they were all better off without her. She would leave, Nymíriel resolved, leave and never return. 

As he gained momentum, Swiftwind's strides began to lengthen. He was the strongest and fastest stallion in Rivendell, and soon, he was practically gliding over the ground, his hooves clacking precisely and steadily. Nymíriel leaned slightly forward to face less resistance from the wind. 

The chilly night air stung her face bitterly - even more so because of the tears streaking down her cheeks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this kind of behavior is quite out of character for Elrond, but I kind of see this as him finally blowing his top. Nymíriel is still a young elf - around 50 years old at the point of this chapter. According to the Lord of the Rings wiki, they "come of age" around that time, so basically, that's when they are old enough to marry, I assume, which I will say is around the very early twenties for humans, when the rational aspect of their brains are, in fact, not fully developed.
> 
> In any case, Nymíriel has been causing Elrond worry since she was old enough to start acting up (which is pretty young). He didn't object much because he didn't want to stifle her, but there were times when her recklessness got on his nerves and made him concerned over her future. And when that recklessness leads her to bring a Warg into Rivendell and some of his subjects to be killed...well, yeah.
> 
> Or if you want to call bullshit on everything I just said, no problem :) It's not like I don't do that sometimes, and I can still enjoy the story.


	2. Chapter 2

Nymíriel rode all day and night, stopping only to allow Swiftwind to graze or to drill her combat techniques in order to not grow dull. She was headed for Lothlorien, where the Lady Galadriel, her grandmother, resided. Nymíriel wondered what Galadriel would say to know that the daughter of her longtime friend (and the elf who'd wed her own daughter, no less) had fled her home and intended not to return. Somehow her instinct assured her that Galadriel would give her opinion on the matter but would not force her into anything. She had only met her grandmother twice in her short life, but Galadriel had been nothing but kind, elegant, and comforting.

Currently, Swiftwind was drinking his fill from a nearby stream, bubbling with clear water. Nymíriel could sense that Lothlorien was very close - the further she rode in the direction she had been going, the more she felt the power and warmth of the light. She suspected that what she was feeling was the power of Galadriel. 

The she-elf turned her head to face the direction from which she had ridden Swiftwind. Even now, a part of her urged her to gallop back towards Imladris, to see her father and her twin, to make amends, and to wait with them for Elladan and Elrohir to return. She did not know when she would ever see them again. _If_ she would ever see them again. What if they departed for Valinor out of the blue, and she gathered her courage to return only to find her home abandoned? 

But how could she hope to make amends? Inhabitants of Rivendell had died because of her carelessness. Her father would not forgive her. No one would want her to return. Even Elladan and Elrohir would be horrified.

 _Yes,_ Nymírielassured herself,  _They will not want me. Not after what has transpired. Arwen has always been a model daughter to our father, but I...I cannot. I will never be what he wishes me to be. It is unfortunate, but perhaps our paths were destined to diverge._

She stares up at the night sky, bright white pinpricks of light - the stars - twinkling against the velvety blackness. She remembered Elrond holding her in his arms as her mother Celebrian held Arwen, telling the two mesmerized children of Varda, the creator of the stars, the queen of the Valar. 

 _She is most beloved to us,_ her father had said.  _When we are in peril, speaking her Elvish name - Elbereth Gilthoniel - is a great comfort; a cry against darkness and danger._

Nymíriel closed her eyes as hot tears split down her cheeks. Yes, her father had always tried to be kind to her. He had always accepted the wildness in her, keeping silent about his own desires of what she be, and she had repaid him by unleashing a beast on his people. 

_"If you were not my daughter, this would not have happened."_

Those would be the last words her father ever spoke to her, Nymíriel concluded, opening her eyes. Her vision blurred and the stars were no longer visible. 

She could not go back. She would not go back. Neither her father nor Arwen would welcome her. 

 _Arwen._ How would her twin sister fare without her? Nymíriel and Arwen had never been close. Their personalities had simply been too different to develop the strong bond that seemed to come so naturally to twins - but Nymíriel loved her sister dearly. How could she not? The thought of only Elrond and Arwen, and later Elladan and Elrohir, sitting at the table, having their meals, with neither Nymíriel nor Celebrian made Nymíriel's chest ache. 

But it was how it must be. Nymíriel was never meant to be the daughter of Elrond and Celebrian. It did not become of her - she was too feisty, too untamable, too fanciful to be a true part of her father and mother's ethereal, noble, and unearthly line. How could she, Nymíriel, in all her wildness and curiosity, be the same as elves such as Elrond, Galadriel, Celeborn, and Celebrian? Arwen was perfect - her twin was graceful, gentle, serene, and was showing early signs of wisdom, much like their relatives. Nymíriel had never envied Arwen's regal nature, but she did in that moment. 

Even Elladan and Elrohir were sons that Elrond could be proud of. Her older brothers were skilled warriors, though they were considered quite young for elves. They were intelligent, perceptive, had good instincts, and a strong sense of duty towards their father, Rivendell, and Middle-Earth itself; both of them would be fine leaders of their own people one day. Nymíriel, however - oh, she would impulsively lead anyone who followed her into a slaughter. 

If only she was like her twin, if only she was like her older brothers, she could embrace her lineage and become a daughter that Elrond would be proud to call his. But that was not Nymíriel, and she refused to change herself. She would always be who she wanted to be. 

Perhaps this was how it was always meant to be. 

She had to become Elrond and Celebrian's daughter no longer. 

* * *

Swiftwind trotted along at a good pace, lush grass shifting and rustling beneath his black hooves. Nymíriel sat astride him, basking in the very presence of Goldenwood. The air was light, unburdened, and relaxing, the song of nature alive within it. Nymíriel already missed Imladris deeply - it's fountains, it's classic architecture, its refined culture - but she was also reveling in the feeling of being within the wild. 

She had been pondering what to do once she faced Galadriel. She had resolved to abandon her unbecoming parentage, and yet was going to seek the counsel of her grandmother. She briefly wondered if she should leave Lothlorien and travel instead to Greenwood, but she had not brought enough supplies to make such a long and harrowing journey. Besides, Elladan and Elrohir were there. Nymíriel was not foolish enough to believe that she could settle in Greenwood without her brothers noticing and questioning. Lothlorien was the only option as of this moment. In that case, Nymíriel realized, she had to confront her parentage one last time before casting it off completely.

Casting off her parentage, the identity that her mother and father had gifted to her... She wondered if she had the strength of will.

Her pointed ears twitched ever-so-slightly as they picked up the sound of almost flawlessly silent footsteps. Nymíriel had trained her perception to perfection - at least, as perfect as her young age permitted her to be. However, she was not afraid, for she knew that nothing with ill intent could enter Lothlorien unless they were more powerful than Galadriel herself - and that was unlikely. Nymíriel would have sensed so great of an evil presence.

So Nymíriel simply allowed herself to relax on Swiftwood's back, even as the sound of footsteps drew nearer until she could tell that they were nearly upon her. Opening her gray-blue eyes, she turned her head slightly towards the three about seven feet diagonally from her right.

"I know you are there," she told the elf hiding among the leaves calmly. "Come out." 

There was a flurry of movement in the greenness before a blonde figure dropped out of the dense cover of intertwined branches and leaves at the highest point of the tree, dropping gracefully onto a branch below. The figure - male, it was now clear - continued to descend until he landed on the ground in a balanced kneeling position. Without a second's pause, he sprang lithely to his feet. 

Now Nymíriel could make out his features more clearly. He was quite handsome, she supposed, in an unorthodox way, with a narrow face, blue eyes, blonde hair, and fair skin. The scout - she guessed he was a scout - was wearing a simple brown tunic and cloak. He had a bow and a quiver of arrows resting on his back, and at his hip hung a sword. His pointed ears displayed that he was clearly an elf. 

For his part, the elf scout seemed to be taking in Nymíriel's icy blue eyes, her pale, unblemished skin, and her long, raven-black hair falling gracefully down her back in a simple plaited braid. Noldorean features, she knew, were unmistakable. His gaze also fell on the sword at her hip, recognizing that it was an old Elvish blade - and the fact that she had permission to use it likely meant she was of high station. 

"By your bearing and your features, I must assume that you are of the Noldorean line," the scout said. His voice was respectful. "Am I correct?"

Nymíriel nodded in affirmation, and the scout bowed his head in greeting. She dismounted Swiftwind, stroking his flank reassuringly, before returning the gesture. She wondered if she should reveal her parentage, but she wanted to see her grandmother first. She was afraid that this elf would send her away if he learned that she was Lord Elrond's daughter who had run away from home. 

"My name is Haldir," the elf told her. "I am a member of Lothlorien's guard." He looked at her expectantly, clearly curious about her own story. After all, it was rather strange to see a Noldorean elf wandering alone, clearly supplied for a long journey. 

"I am called Lalaith," Nymíriel fibbed smoothly, not missing a beat. "My mother was a relative of Lord Elrond," she continued, thinking fast. "And my father was a Silvan elf. Their relationship was looked down on, so they decided to become vagabonds in order to be together." She wondered if her story was ridiculous. It sounded like a classic tale she might have read out of one of her childhood storybooks. 

"I see," Haldir accepted, although she wasn't certain if he really believed her. "And may I ask where your parents are now?"

"They are dead," Nymíriel responded quietly. "They have been dead for several years now."

Haldir lowered his head upon hearing her lie. He was respectfully silent, and Nymíriel suspected that he was honoring the dead. She played along, even though a part of her felt badly for making up such a falsehood. But she couldn't be caught, not yet. She wondered if Haldir would be angry at her for lying to him. If he found out. She hoped not.

"My lord and lady will always welcome elves looking for a home," Haldir said. "And it is also my duty to bring any newcomers before them. If you have no issue, allow me to escort you to Caras Galadhon." 

Nymíriel saw no reason to refuse. She wasn't lonely, but she wouldn't mind the company of another elf, especially one who was offering to bring her to Caras Galadhon where she was closer to Galadriel - and potential supplies, for she wanted to distance herself from Rivendell as quickly as possible. Besides, having Haldir with her would lessen any suspicion. 

"I see nothing wrong with that," Nymíriel declared. She patted the saddle behind her. "Feel free to mount, Haldir." 

He seemed slightly flustered. "I have my own mount."

She glanced around with a mockingly searching expression before turning back to him with a playful smile. "Not here, clearly. And I do not wish to delay my journey, which, if you will forgive me, will happen if I have you walk." Vaulting onto her horse's back, the she-elf patted the saddle once again. "Sit, my lord scout. And do try to maintain a fair distance so your fellow scouts will not misunderstand."

She smiled airily at the indignant and slightly amused look Haldir pointed at her before he approached Swiftwind. The horse did not seem alarmed at the elf getting closer - he simply twitched his ear and stared at Haldir curiously. The scout reached forward and stroked Swiftwind's snout, and Nymíriel felt her mount's tail swish from pleasure. 

Once Swiftwind was properly familiarized with him - which took all but ten seconds, as elves held a natural affinity for animals - Haldir vaulted fluidly onto the horse's back, settling behind Nymíriel. She had to admit that for all her teasing, being so close to a male elf made her cheeks slightly heated. She had never known the touch of a man in a remotely intimate way. Her father would not approve.

The thought of her father snapped Nymíriel out of her slight haze.  _I cannot call him my father,_ she reminded herself.  _Lord Elrond. I must call him Lord Elrond from now henceforth. I am no longer his daughter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lalaith, in my mind, is pronounced as "Lah-layith".


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that Celebrian departed for the Undying Lands far later in LotR canon, but for the sake of the story, we will say that her capture, torture, and departure occurred much sooner, when [Name] and Arwen were about 10-20 years old.

Nymíriel was unable to contain her wonder at the sight of the capital of Lothlorien. Although she had been here twice before, it had been as a young child, and she did not remember it well. The splendor and light of the city were dazzling. Nymíriel could easily tell why it held such appeal to elves. Lothlorien, and especially Caras Galadhorn, felt like a paradise far beyond the reach of danger. Nymíriel knew it must be her grandmother's power. 

Still, she did not think she would belong here. It reminded her of Arwen and Elrond - elegant, refined, breathtaking, simply radiating with nobility. Nymíriel had never fit into such a world. Her fractured relationship with her family was proof enough of that. She didn't want to bring damage to Lothlorien as well. 

She found herself consumed with such thoughts as she blindly followed Haldir through the city. She must leave Lothlorien; but where would she go? Greenwood was not an option. Besides the fact that her own brothers resided there at the moment, she'd heard word of their king,Thranduil; that he was an efficient and tactical ruler. There were also rumors that he was growing increasingly colder in personality since the demise of his wife some decades ago. She wasn't sure such a king would welcome her into his halls. 

Nymíriel began to wonder if she would end up a vagabond as she had told Haldir she was. It did not seem like the worst possible fate, but she was not blind to the dangers of such a lifestyle. Although she was used to living in the wild by herself (despite her father's attempts to stop her), the situation was different. Back then, she had a home to go back to. Now, she had nowhere.

Regardless, she decided, it was a problem for later. She had always enjoyed a little spontaneity. Right now, she had to be prepared to convince Galadriel that her place was not Imladris. Her grandmother would likely be sympathetic to Elrond's plight, having lost Celebrian to trauma as well. Galadriel knew what it was like to watch your child leave.

 _I am not Lord Elrond's child,_ Nymíriel reminded herself.  _My parents are dead. I wander._

After Haldir had given Swiftwind a comfortable stable, wherein her mount folded his legs under his powerful body and dozed, clearly tired from the long journey, the scout led her towards the central building of Caras Galadhorn. They, by chance, crossed paths with a group of scouts reporting to Galadriel and Celeborn. 

"Who is this?" One of the scouts, with dark brown hair and the same shade of eyes, inquired. Nymíriel could see him processing her Noldorean features, just as Haldir had, along with the rest of the scouts. Some, she guessed the less experienced ones, stared at her with unabashed curiosity. 

"Her name is Lalaith," Haldir informed, and Nymíriel remembered that she had lied about her name to Haldir. That was another thing to consider, she noted, scowling mentally at herself for forgetting such an important factor. She had been so caught up with wondering where she would go that she hadn't considered what she would call herself. Her real name was not an option. It would be a dead giveaway that she had been Elrond's daughter.

 _Why not Lalaith?_ she thought. It was a title she would have to get used to being called here in Lothlorien, since she had told Haldir that it was her name. It was not a bad name either, and certainly no one would link it back to Nymíriel. 

"She is an orphan and has been wandering alone since the death of her parents. Because Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn have always been hospitable, I offered to bring her to them," Haldir explained to his comrades. Nymíriel - no, not Nymíriel now, she reminded herself -  _Lalaith_ inclined her head respectfully, placing a hand on her heart. "Greetings."

The other elves in the scouting group returned her gesture. 

"This is Laeg," Haldir told her, nodding at the elf with dark hair and eyes who had asked who she was. "And this is Caerath," he added, gesturing to another. He continued until Nymíriel - Lalaith was aware of the names of all the elves in the group. 

"Are you on your way to report to Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel?" Haldir asked. Laeg nodded. 

"Then let us accompany you."

The scouts gave their consent, and were off again, Lalaith and Haldir trailing in their wake. 

* * *

Nymíriel - Lalaith - was nervous. She was praying that Galadriel and Celeborn did not instantly notice her and inquire what the daughter of Elrond was doing so far from home, without any word of any travels. She stood before the staircase with the scouts, who were preparing to make their report. 

She had not seen her grandmother and grandfather for several decades. The last time they had crossed paths she had been a child. Although she was more grown now, she knew that she could not possibly compare to their vast knowledge and wisdom. She knew not how old they were, but it was said that Galadriel had been alive longer than the Sun and the Moon themselves. Nymíriel  - Lalaith could not comprehend times so ancient. 

Overwhelming reverence suddenly gripped her as her sensitive eyes picked up two tall figures, clothed in pure white, emerging from beyond the stairs. The young elf found that she was having trouble keeping her eyes on them, so blinding were their very presences. At the same time, she could not look away, caught in a haze of sheer wonder. 

Galadriel and Celeborn made their way down the stairs with impossible grace and dignity. Their faces were solemn, emotionless yet somehow just the sight of them provided the greatest sense of being protected. Lalaith could not decide if she wanted to fall on her knees in awe or bask in the comfort of being in the presence of such powerful beings. 

Galadriel's beauty was so gripping that Lalaith was struck wordless. Even now, seeing the Lady of Lothlorien for the third time, her loveliness was such that Lalaith could hardly believe she was Nymíriel's grandmother. Galadriel was tall and slender, with pale skin and unfathomable, deep blue eyes. Her hair must have seen the light of the Two Trees themselves, Lalaith thought, or how could it be so striking? Her locks fell smoothly down her poised back and hit her knees in lustrous waves of silver-gold. They swayed beautifully with Galadriel's every movement.  _"Maiden crowned in a radiant garland" indeed._

Celeborn was as handsome as his wife was beautiful. His masculine face must have been sculpted to the likeness of a god, with ice blue eyes that reminded Lalaith of her own. He was tall and powerfully built - this she could tell even when he was clad in flowing robes. His hair was a luminescent shade of silver with a tinge of pale blonde, falling down to his waist. Like Galadriel, he had pale skin.

The Lord and Lady of Lothlorien studied the faces of their scouts briefly before turning their eyes on her, and Lalaith felt cowed. She could feel someone in her mind, gently probing her thoughts. She held back a flinch as her recent memories - the disaster in Rivendell, her quarrel with Lord Elrond, her departure from her home - were touched. Surprisingly, however, Galadriel drew back from that particular recollection quickly and gave her husband a look. Celeborn returned it, and a silent communication appeared to pass through husband and wife. 

Celeborn's eyes traveled to Lalaith during his conversation with Galadriel, and Ny-Lalaith - had the sense that the topic of their conversation was why the daughter of Lord Elrond was here. She did not blame them for their curiosity. 

"I trust there was nothing dangerous?" Celeborn inquired. 

"No, my lord," Laeg responded. "Aside from Lalaith, everything was as normal."

"So her name is Lalaith," Galadriel murmured. Lalaith could sense her grandmother's amusement at the name she had given herself. She wondered if her actions seemed foolish to the eons-old Galadriel.

"Thank you, all of you," the Lady of Lothlorien thanked the scouts. "Now if you will take your leave. My husband and I wish to hear our guest privately."

The scouts all bowed their heads before leaving in a disciplined, organized manner. Haldir cast Lalaith a look of slight curiosity before following the rest of his troupe. Lalaith almost wished they would not leave. The subtle pressure and anxiety that being alone in the presence of Galadriel and Celeborn made her squirm.

"Tell me, Nymíriel," Galadriel spoke first, and Nymíriel - Lalaith - could now clearly hear the gentle amusement in her grandmother's voice, much to her chagrin. "Why are you here, under the name 'Lalaith'? We have not received word of your coming."

"Indeed, this is most strange," Celeborn responded. He was more austere and stoic than his wife, but Lalaith thought she could make out the hint of mirth in his eyes. 

"I sense that you are making an attempt to separate your identity from yourself," Galadriel noted, staring intently at Lalaith. "What has happened, granddaughter?"

"I-" Nymíriel - Lalaith - almost forgot to breathe. Could she really tell her grandparents her reason for casting away Nymíriel? Would they think she was being ridiculous? Even  _she_ could sense that there was something ludicrous about her logic and her motivations. 

"I do not think I would be welcomed back in Rivendell," she admitted.

"You have quarreled with your father," Galadriel said. "A Warg was brought into Rivendell despite his misgivings, and elves have died at its teeth and claws." 

Lalaith lowered her head. "Yes," she whispered. 

"Is this how you seek to atone?" Celeborn asked calmly. There was not a hint of judgment or condescending in his tone, face, or eyes. It was as if young elves fleeing their homes was an everyday occurrence to the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien. Lalaith wondered if her observation was not far off. Galadriel and Celeborn had been alive for so many millennia. How much had they seen over the centuries upon centuries?

"It is not simply atonement, my lord," Lalaith admitted. "It is for my sake as well as my Lord Elrond's - and Rivendell's. I do not belong in Imladris, I never have. And I will only shame Lord Elrond by remaining his daughter."

"You will not even refer to Elrond as your father," Celeborn observed, watching her intently. "Are you so determined to throw away your identity as Nymíriel?" 

"I am, my lord," Lalaith affirmed, flushing at the slight tremor in her voice. Even so, she continued proudly. "I cannot be Nymíriel, not when I cause my father so much trouble and grief. It is because of me that innocent - and very young - elves in Rivendell perished, where they should have been safe. And Nymíriel has never been a satisfactory daughter to Lord Elrond." It was quite strange referring to Nymíriel in third person, but, Lalaith reminded herself, she would get used to it. She would get used to treating Nymíriel as someone entirely different from her. 

"Listen to her, Celeborn," Galadriel said softly. "She is resolute in her determination to disassociate herself from Nymíriel. My dear granddaughter," the High Elf murmured, releasing her husband's hand and approaching Lalaith. She was so much taller than the younger elf, towering a full head above her, and Lalaith was forced to crane her neck in order to look at the Lady of Lothlorien in the eyes. 

"I speak to you now as not just your grandmother, or as a very wise elf who was lived thousands upon thousands of years, as I have noticed you label me as in your head," she smiled good-naturedly, and Lalaith felt her cheeks going red with embarrassment. Of course. Galadriel had the power of telepathy. Why had she not considered it earlier? She would have at least made an effort to muffle her awed thoughts.

"I speak to you as a parent. There is no parent alive who wishes to lose their child the way Elrond is about to lose you, Nymíriel. He will forgive you. It will be such a great pain to him if you continue on this path. Are you certain that this is the way you wish to go?"

Lalaith nodded. "I am certain, my lady," she confirmed, making an effort to sound calmer. The two ancient elves radiated power so potent that she would have felt threatened if not for the aura of wisdom and comfort they simultaneously provided. Even so, she would not be blubbering like a fool forever. She doubted Galadriel and Celeborn would appreciate her stammering and spluttering either. "Even if Lord Elrond were to forgive me, I cannot forgive myself. He does not wish for me to be his daughter, and I cannot help but see the truth in his words." 

"No father alive wishes his daughter were not his," Celeborn spoke up from behind Galadriel. "You will wound him greatly if you do this, Nymíriel ." 

"Please call me Lalaith," Lalaith requested quietly. She was determined that she would not go back. It would be so difficult for her, and it may be painful for Lord Elrond at first, but he would get over Nymíriel's disappearance. It was not as if she had ever been a daughter that the high elf could be proud of.

"Even if Lord Elrond were to forgive her, Nymíriel would still be unable to become a daughter that he could be proud of," Lalaith elaborated. "She was always bringing only worry, uncertainty, and frustration upon him. And moreover, even if Lord Elrond were to forgive her, Nymíriel cannot forgive herself."

She was surprised at how calm her voice was, how steady. It frightened her a little bit. Was she supposed to feel so levelheaded and relaxed when she was in the middle of abandoning her identity? Even Galadriel and Celeborn appeared slightly unnerved by her willingness to cast Nymíriel off. 

"You are indeed a strange one," Celeborn murmured. Galadriel nodded her head gracefully in agreement. Her gaze was intently searching Lalaith's face as if trying to extract information out of her through sheer willpower. Tension built up between the two elves and then was suddenly released as Galadriel stepped back with a knowing smile. What she had discovered, Lalaith did not know. 

"Where will you go?" the high elf questioned. Celeborn gave his wife a glancing look but seemed satisfied that she was satisfied. 

"I am not sure, my lady," Lalaith responded. "I know that I cannot stay here, however. I fear that I will find myself in the same situation as Nymíriel did in Rivendell."

"I have never met a wilder spirit," Celeborn mused. "It is the first time an elf has refused our hospitality because she does not wish to be tied down."

Lalaith winced. Had she ignited his ire? "I am sorry if I have offended you, my lord," she apologized. Celeborn's pale eyes glinted in amusement. "No," he reassured her. "You have not offended me. I am merely quite intrigued with you."

It was odd knowing that she had ignited the curiosity of two of the oldest elves to dwell in Middle Earth. Lalaith wondered if there was a soul out there who wished to abandon their past self as she wanted to. Considering that Galadriel and Celeborn themselves had never encountered such a person, she doubted it.

"Will you perhaps travel to Greenwood?" Galadriel offered. "It is mostly populated by Silvan elves, but they are reigned by King Thranduil. He is Sindarin." 

"I cannot," Lalaith admitted. "My brothers have been sent to dwell there for three years by my father, so that they may familiarize themselves with as many places outside Rivendell as possible. They would certainly question my presence there." 

"Heed my words, Lalaith," Galadriel said, surprising Lalaith with her use of her new name. Why the eons-old elf had so calmly accepted her decision baffled her slightly. What had been that knowing smile from earlier? Lalaith was sure that the Lady of Lothlorien knew something that she did not. 

"I will tell you this much; you will meet the King of the Woodland Realm one day." Lalaith's brows rose at Galadriel's words, but she said nothing. "When that time comes, you will find that he is very unlike Lord Elrond, myself, or my husband."

 _Very unlike?_ the young she-elf could not help but ponder what Galadriel meant. The wheels of her brain spun as they tried to fix together what seemed like a riddle. What traits did Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel, and Lord Celeborn have in common? Age? But King Thranduil certainly could not be young, and besides, Galadriel and Celeborn were far older than Elrond. And how did Galadriel know that she would meet this king one day?

"There is another place you can go, if Greenwood is not acceptable," Celeborn spoke, pulling Lalaith out of her thoughts. "The skin-changers of the Anduin valley have ever been known for their wildness. They do not believe in laws save the barest few that allow them to live in peaceful harmony." 

"Skin-changers?" Lalaith echoed. Her mind was buckling at the sudden intake of so much shocking information. She would meet King Thranduil one day...he was different from Galadriel, Celeborn, and Elrond, and...Skin-changers. Their name said enough about the species and the abilities of its members, but the concept still put her at awe. Could they shapeshift?

"Yes, they can assume the form and abilities of animals," Galadriel explained. "They are quite rare and prefer their privacy. They cherish their peace, however, and will not be openly hostile or violent unless provoked."

That did not sound bad at all to Lalaith. However, she wasn't foolish enough to believe that these skin-changers would easily welcome a stranger into their midst, especially one that was not one of their kind. She wondered if any of them had ever seen an elf before; from what Galadriel said, they seemed to live by the principle of isolationism. If she wanted to live with the skin-changers - and it seemed the best option for her as well, even Lord Elrond was unlikely to guess her whereabouts, especially because he had told Nymíriel nothing about the skin-changers and therefore did not expect Lalaith to know of their existence - she would have to earn their trust. 

"Thank you for telling me about them," she told the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien sincerely. "I will try to take all possibilities into consideration and make haste to leave. I do not wish to burden you."

Galadriel smiled warmly. "You are not a burden, Lalaith," she assured the younger elf. "I now see that this is an important part of your path. You will play a critical role, and a very surprising one, yet..." 

* * *

 _Very unlike. Very unlike._ There had to be a trait shared between Galadriel, Celeborn, and Elrond that Thranduil did not have for Galadriel to make such a comparison. What was it? Not age...not physical appearance...

Demeanor? 

Lalaith thought it might be a viable option. Galadriel, Celeborn, and Elrond, though possessing a certain intimidating pressure to their presences, radiated warmth, light, and protection. Moreover, none of them had chosen to take royal titles, seeing themselves as guardians of their respective elf-havens. Could it be that Thranduil did not? Was he cold? Haughty? Now that she considered it,  _he_ had taken a royal title - King of Greenwood.

 "What did you discuss with my lord and lady?" Haldir asked. Lalaith had long lost count of how many sudden statements had brought her out of her constant musing.

"They were kind enough to offer me places that I could go once I left here," Lalaith explained honestly. She felt badly for lying to Haldir; she wanted to tell him the truth as much as possible from this point on. 

Haldir seemed mildly surprised by her reply. "You are leaving?" he asked. Lalaith did not blame him for being perplexed. Why would an elf want to leave the heavenly Lothlorien? Even Galadriel and Celeborn had expressed surprise at her desire to find another place to stay. 

"Why? Have you grown fond of my company already?" she teased.

Clearly Haldir was not used to such overt playfulness. Lalaith acknowledged that her flirting was rather bold in comparison to most elleths, who used shy and quiet giggles, graceful moves, and ornate outfits to draw attention. Not that there was anything wrong with it; she simply preferred using this method. She found it more entertaining. 

The subject of her attention - Haldir - turned a light shade of pink. 

"Nothing of the sort," despite his reddening complexion, his voice was even. "I was simply surprised that you'd wish to leave Lothlorien."

"Lothlorien is a beautiful place," Lalaith conceded, glancing around. She was not lying. Lothlorien's splendor was indeed breathtaking, no matter how many times she gazed upon it. It was like a safe haven for elves, especially when protected by one of the wisest and most powerful elves in existence. She could name several elleths she knew that would love to live here. 

"It is beautiful," she repeated, "but it is not for me." 

"Why is that?" There was genuine curiosity in Haldir's voice.

"I cannot explain it," Lalaith admitted. "I told my father that refined cities and grand buildings did not agree with me. He asked me why, as you have, and I could not answer him. I have given up trying to find the reason." It was simply how she had been born; possessing an aversion to the ornate elegance that high elves usually enjoyed so much. It was awing, yes. But was the awe worth living in a cage? No. 

"Was your father perplexed?" Haldir wondered aloud. "I imagine he may have been. You say your father was a Silvan elf, correct? We do usually live under the protection of the Sindarin or the Noldor. We appreciate their great halls of wonder and are grateful for their guidance, for they have had experience with the Valar; we have not. I hear it makes them wiser."

 _Does it really?_ Lalaith wondered. Of course, she had not had any contact with the Valar. The only relation she had to them was through Nymíriel and Lord Elrond. That made her essentially a Silvan elf; did it make her less wise than the Noldorean and Sindarin elves? 

 _Was Nymíriel adopted?_ Lalaith thought in slight amusement. It seemed that she had been much more like a Silvan elf than she had ever been a Noldorean. Much to Lord Elrond's worry, Nymíriel had found that sprinting through the woods, leaping over and off of tree roots, ducking stray branches, and dodges bushes and tree trunks was strongly her forte. There had been no elf close to her age group that was so nimble, so graceful, so agile in the trees. It had been clear to all that the wilderness called to Nymíriel.

It was the same for Lalaith. Only Lalaith did not have the shackles that had bound Nymíriel. She had no need to concern herself over spoiling Lord Elrond's reputation by being such a disgraceful daughter. She had no need to stomach the pang of guilt that she felt when Lord Elrond looked at her with disappointment - cleverly masked disappointment, but there nonetheless. Lalaith could be free, without apology and without consequence, where Nymíriel could have only dreamed of it.

"My father was perplexed," she confirmed, deliberately ignoring the painful ache in her heart at the thought of Lord Elrond. Yes, he had certainly been perplexed - perplexed and worried, frustrated, angered, exhausted - she could go on and on about the troubles that Nymíriel had caused. "He did not understand my sentiment. I think it concerned him that his daughter insisted on never being tied down." 

Haldir did not respond. He had not spoken of his own parents in the few hours that Lalaith had known him. She wondered if they had perished or left for Valinor, or if they were alive and perfectly well. 

"My own parents worried when I insisted on becoming a guard of Lothlorien," he spoke. Lalaith glanced sideways at him in mild surprise. Speak of Morgoth, she mused, as soon as she had thought of his parents he had said something about them. "They wished for me to become an artisan, or a healer - anything to keep me away from the dangers of battle."

Lalaith was sure Nymíriel could relate heavily to Haldir. Because she certainly could

"And now?" she asked. "Do they accept it now?"

"My father...he is dead." There was no emotion in Haldir's voice. 

Lalaith suppressed a grimace as a nauseating pang hit her stomach. So his father was dead. She didn't say anything more, not wanting to play with fire. He hadn't mentioned his mother, so she most likely was still living, but Lalaith had a feeling that Haldir's mother's situation was not good, either. 

"I'm sorry," Haldir said suddenly. "I am supposed to be escorting you to where you can stay until you decide to leave. Lady Galadriel has already made arrangements."

Galadriel had already seen fit to provide her with shelter? Lalaith was touched. Despite her being no longer Galadriel's granddaughter, despite having willingly cast that title off, the Lady of Lothlorien was still ensuring that she was well sheltered. She wondered if this courtesy was extended to all visitors of Lothlorien. Considering the words of Galadriel's boundless generosity, she suspected that everyone passing through - or at least elves, for they spoke the most Galadriel's kindness - were shown the same hospitality. 

 _I should extend my thanks the next time I see her,_ Lalaith noted mentally. She wondered  _if_ she would ever see Galadriel, or Celeborn for that matter, again. 

"Haldir," the young she-elf spoke up, glancing at her companion. He turned his head towards her. "Yes?"

"Please give Lady Galadriel my deepest gratitude for me."

 


	4. Chapter 4

Lalaith, book held firmly in hand, made her way gracefully across the roads of Caras Galadhon. It was not the kind of grace one would expect in an elf-maiden; rather, it was that of a huntress, nimble and spry and agile. It was a way of movement that Elladan had described as "catlike". When Nymíriel had laughed and retorted that all elves were catlike in their movement, Elrohir had claimed that Nymíriel's stride was more so than most. _"That does not even make sense," Nymíriel had chuckled, and Elrohir had dug his fist lightly into her side. "Question not your older brother, Míriel." He had said._

Now, walking with that stride that had used to be Nymíriel's, Lalaith wondered if Elladan's words were true.

The book she held in her slender hands was one she had selected from the local library. Nymíriel had loved to read since a young age - that, at least, Elrond had approved of - and Lalaith enjoyed it immensely as well. This particular one that she had taken only half-a-day to read - or rather reread - was the story of Beren and Luthien. She was familiar with their story, it had been one told to her in Nymíriel's early childhood, and the young elfling had come to respect Luthien greatly. The half-elf, half-Maiar ancestor of Lord Elrond had had the courage and will to defy what was expected and desired of her by others, and had pursued what  _she_ wanted. And to think she had even faced off against Sauron and Morgoth themselves! There was no word that Luthien had combat ability, but both Nymíriel and Lalaith considered a great warrior regardless for her courage and spirit. 

Male elves stared unabashedly at Lalaith as she made her way down the path. A few of the bolder ones even flashes her smiles or cocky grins, pulling back their pale pink lips to flash perfect, stark-white teeth. Lalaith smiled back, flustering a few, uncaring of if they got the wrong idea. She was not a shy person, although quite reserved in a strange way. She was aware that she was attractive, although neither she nor Nymíriel believed she was competition for Arwen as others had said. 

In order to blend in, at least for a time, Lalaith had donned a [dress](https://static1.squarespace.com/static/569fe682df40f315de7843a1/t/588df81d2e69cf76b758e5ae/1485699110286/Kimono1.jpg), far more traditionally feminine than the tunic and cloak she had arrived in, of pale gray silk. Her long, ebony locks were pulled into a simple [hairstyle](https://data.whicdn.com/images/219304358/original.gif) decorated with a pale gold and white circlet sitting atop the crown of her head. She was not inexperienced in wearing such clothes; she had had to during formal occasions in Rivendell, and was in fact quite at home doing so. She moved as gracefully as she did in her traveling tunic. 

Lalaith was on her way to the library to return the book and to select another one. Her boundless passion for reading was only matched by her overflowing curiosity and free-spirited nature. She hummed a tune to herself as she wondered what kind of book she would take away today. Perhaps one about the Valar? Or perhaps one about the Maiar? The Istari? No, maybe she ought to read something about Glorfindel and Ecthelion instead, the Balrog-slayers. 

Ah, Glorfindel. Nymíriel had encountered him once. It had been a rather awkward incident, now that she considered him, although in her youth the strangeness had passed her by.

She was so preoccupied with deciding what topic she wanted that she nearly missed the commotion. If not for her acute hearing, it would have all been over. 

Lalaith picked up the sounds of people gasping in surprise and murmuring. Snapping out of her haze, she listened curiously and the words she heard chilled her to the bone.

_"Elves from Rivendell!"_

_"That is an entire troop of guards. The person they are escorting must be..."_

_"It is undoubtedly Lord Elrond. What is he doing here?"_

An overpowering sense of panic engulfed Lalaith. Her fath - Lord Elrond! What was he doing here? Oh yes, she had expected him to send soldiers to search, and Lothlorien was quite a predictable place to be, as it was the home of Nymíriel's closest kin following her immediate family. But why was Lord Elrond here  _in person?_ He had not left Imladris in so long! He had always insisted that his place was with the elves he guided, so why was he here?

She scrambled behind a nearby building, ducking into its shadow and out of sight. Her chest constricted in fear. What if Lord Elrond had heard someone running? She knew it was a ludicrous thought - it would be hard to distinguish a single elf's footsteps from so many - but the doubt was there nevertheless. 

There was only one explanation for Lord Elrond's presence here - he had come looking for Nymíriel. But why would he? Why leave Rivendell to search for Nymíriel? Why leave the people and the town he treasured so much to look for a shameful daughter like Nymíriel? 

 _Leave,_ she wanted to shout.  _Please go, Lord Elrond. [Name] is not here. You will not find her in Lothlorien - or anywhere else in Arda. [Name] is gone. And I cannot stand to look at your face!_

It was likely that Lord Elrond would go to see Galadriel and Celeborn, as he knew that Lothlorien's policy was to bring any newcomers - and they were not very numerous - to see the Lord and Lady, and thus, if Nymíriel had come by, Galadriel and Celeborn would know of it. Another fresh wave of panic gripped her at the thought. What if they told him Lalaith was here? She could not blame them - who would not feel compassion for a father whose child had fled into the night? Who could withhold information of that child from him?

Yet what could she do? She could not make it in time! 

 _I will follow them,_ Lalaith resolved.  _If Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn tell Lord Elrond that I am in Lothlorien, I will reveal myself to him of my own volition. And I will convince Lord Elrond that he need not search for Nymíriel - that it is for the good of all of us that [Name] stay away._

 _I must convince him. It will not be hard,_ she reassured herself, Nymíriel  _is not a daughter worth fighting to win back, he will see that soon._

**~**

Lalaith tailed the entourage with all the stealth she could manage, making sure she was a reasonable, safe distance behind them. It was not too difficult as there was a crowd of Lothlorien elves gathering, all of them curious as to why Lord Elrond of Rivendell was here, in their midst. 

The crowd, concealing Lalaith, followed the elves of Rivendell right up to the palace of Galadriel and Celeborn before they at last dispersed. Knowing she would be noticed if she simply followed Lord Elrond's entourage, Lalaith slipped into a small group of them and distanced herself from the palace. Once she was a good distance away, she hurriedly doubled back and walked into the palace, trying to hide her urgency. None of the guards standing guard of the palace objected at her entrance. They knew her as a guest of their Lord and Lady. 

As her detour had taken only thirty seconds, once Lalaith was inside, she, much to her relief, could see the last of the Rivendell elves turning a corner. She speedily walked after them. Turning the same corner, Lalaith saw that four Lothlorien guards were escorting Lord Elrond and his entourage. It was likely that he had skipped refreshments and rest and had come immediately to ask Galadriel and Celeborn if they had seen her.

They could not tell the truth! It would bring nothing but misery in the future! Yet what could she do? She could not flee Lothlorien in time, and nor could she try to stop them from meeting, as it was too late and she would be seen. 

 _If it comes to that, I will make him understand that he will be happier letting me go,_ Lalaith told herself. She must. 

She trailed after the entourage, keeping a large distance between them as to not make it obvious that she was following them. The Lothlorien guards led the group through the winding halls of the palace, presumably leading the Rivendell elves to meet Galadriel and Celeborn.

The group, along with Lalaith following stealthily behind, passed through hall after hall until they arrived in front of an ornate archway. Below the archway, awaiting their guests, were Galadriel and Celeborn, hand in hand. They looked as solemn, regal, and otherwordly as they had when she had first seen them. Even now, their beauty was striking, Lalaith thought as she concealed herself behind a pillar directly next to a corner. It would be very easy to escape unnoticed from here.

"Elrond," there was a pleased lilt in Celeborn's voice upon seeing the Lord of Rivendell. "You did not send word as you usually do. What brings you here, my friend?"

"Celeborn, Galadriel." Lalaith's gut wrenched at the tone of her father - Lord Elrond's voice. She had never before heard him sound so...distressed. Her heart ached at the thought that he must endure the pain of Nymíriel's leaving. 

 _You could step forward,_ a voice whispered in her head.  _All you must do is reveal yourself, and you will strip your father of all his pain and troubles._

 _He is not my father!_ Nymíriel - Lalaith hissed back.  _He cannot be my father! He will be happier if he is not. I have been nothing but a shame to him, do not forget it!_

"My daughter - Nymíriel. Have you heard any word of her? Has she, perhaps, passed through Lothlorien?" The underlying frantic note in his voice that he was trying to conceal clutched at Lalaith's chest. Nevertheless, she could not help but feel trepidation. What would Galadriel and Celeborn say?  _Please, please do not speak,_ Lalaith prayed.  _I cannot go back. I will ruin myself, Rivendell, and my family._

"Nymíriel? What has happened to her?" Galadriel asked. Her voice, though calm, held a perfect hint of concern. Lalaith, from her hiding spot, felt that her body had been liquified from utter relief. And yet, beneath it, was she feeling a modicum of sorrow? She pushed it away, reminding herself that it was again, for the best. 

"She has vanished, six days ago," Elrond replied. He was no longer making an effort to repress his concern, and it was now overflowing from his voice. "I cannot locate a trace of her. My soldiers managed to discern that she left Rivendell to head into the Misty Mountains, but beyond that, her trail is lost."

"I regret to inform you, my friend, that we have heard nothing of Nymíriel," Celeborn said regretfully. "Whyever has she decided to vanish so abruptly? Do you have any idea, Elrond?" 

"Unfortunately, I do." Lord Elrond's voice was now heavy with disappointment and the loss of hope. "She and I have quarreled. I did not mean to...I fear I have hurt her greatly." 

"How so, my friend?" Celeborn asked. Galadriel was silent, much to Lalaith's fear. Was the Lady of Lothlorien changing her mind upon seeing how frantic Lord Elrond was? She could not even blame Galadriel for sympathizing. Who would not want to help a father who had lost his child? 

"She committed a grave error, but even so, I should not have said what I did," Elrond said. "Nymíriel brought a Warg into Rivendell, an injured Warg. During the night, it rampaged. In my anger, I told her..." His voice trailed off. The remorse in his voice could not have been more obvious. Part of Lalaith screamed at her to run out and embrace  _her father._

But how could she? Elves had _died_ because of  _her!_ What justice did they get if she returned to Rivendell as if she had not done anything wrong? How could she face them in Valinor? How could she laugh with her father - no, Lord Elrond, Lord Elrond,  _Lord Elrond_ \- with the knowledge that she had caused the death of the people he watched over? She could not! 

"And what was it you said?" Galadriel's voice was soft. 

"I told her that if she were not my daughter, this would not have happened." 

Lalaith could not prevent herself from wincing with pain. Hearing those words again brought a lump to her throat and pain to her chest. It did not help that Lord Elrond held such raw sorrow. Gritting her teeth, she tried not to groan painfully lest she give away her position. 

 _Go to him!_ The voice in her head roared back to life.  _Do you not see how your absence grieves him? Do you not see the suffering you are causing him? You can take away his pain if you just step forward!_

 _You do not understand,_ Lalaith thought miserably.  _Lord Elrond's grief will be fleeting. He will be glad to be rid of Nymíriel soon!_

 _You are a fool!_ The voice snapped.  _No father would be glad to be rid of his daughter!_

 _Do you not see the troubles Nymíriel has caused him?_ snarled Lalaith back.  _Do you not remember that her foolishness led to the deaths of elves? Do you not remember his frustration at her neverending recklessness? Do you not remember what a shame Nymíriel was upon his name? His grief is temporary! He will realize that Nymíriel's disappearance is a gift from the Valar._

"I am sorry to tell you that you will regret having said this to Nymíriel." Galadriel's calm, smooth voice broke Lalaith's argument with the voice in her head. She felt herself go hot with chagrin. Had she truly just been fighting with heedless thoughts that had come to mind? She wondered if her mental stability had begun to wobble already. 

But regret? Why? Lord Elrond would not regret his words - would he? He would eventually be glad that she had struck out on her own to remove the burden from his shoulders. Oh yes - Galadriel must mean that Elrond would regret it in the short term. Or perhaps regret that those had been his last words to her - but Lalaith knew that he would not regret her leaving. 

"I cannot possibly regret it more than I do now." 

_**Go to him!** _

Lalaith did not think she could bear this. If she continued to listen to this conversation, the voice in her head would possess her thoughts. She would walk out and embrace her father - no, it was Lord Elrond, Lord Elrond, not _her father_ - and bring him yet more trouble and grief. She must leave.

Trying to be as silent as possible, she slipped from her hiding spot, rounded the corner, and snuck down the halls. Once she was out of earshot, she ran back to her chambers.

* * *

Lalaith remained shut in her rooms for the remainder of the day, sometimes restlessly pacing, sometimes laying on the bed and staring at the ceiling, sometimes sitting on the hard floor having an argument with herself as to why it would be a mistake to return to being Nymíriel. She had not the faintest idea how long Lord Elrond would remain at Lothlorien, but she did not think he would stay for much more. He would likely be off to search for Nymíriel again, or perhaps - and she hoped against hope for this - he had given up and was returning to Imladris. His people needed him, far moreso than a disgraceful daughter who had cast him off of her own will. 

She was again laying on her bed, trying to ignore the part of her trying to convince her to reveal herself to Lord Elrond, when she heard a knock on the door. Lalaith cursed herself for not hearing the footsteps, which she would have detected had she not been so preoccupied in her thoughts. She had to stay alert, she reminded herself.

"Yes?" she called.

"It is Haldir." 

Lalaith furrowed her brows. Haldir? What was he doing here? How did he even know where her room was? "I am coming," she called nevertheless, rising from the bed, walking to the door, and opening it to allow her recent acquaintance to enter. The room was not very large, and in the quite enclosed space, she realized she was more aware of Haldir's height in comparison to hers. 

Haldir no longer wore the uniform of coarse, tough material that he had donned when she had last seen him. Now, he was clad in a tunic of pale blue, with white trousers and brown boots. He looked far more relaxed than she remembered him being; it was likely the effect of being at ease in Caras Galadhorn, rested and fresh. 

"Why are you here?" she inquired, puzzled. She liked Haldir, but they certainly were not close enough to be knocking in each others' room doors and having private meetings. _Speaking of which, how is he aware of my chambers' location?_ she wondered again. 

"Lady Galadriel sent me," he responded. 

"Lady Galadriel?" Lalaith was not sure why. "What does she want of me?"

"I do not know. I only came because she requested me to see if you were 'alright'. That with quite recent events, you may be conflicted."

Lalaith was certain that Galadriel was speaking of Lord Elrond's presence in Lothlorien. But how was it that Lady Galadriel was aware of her torn state of mind? Could it be that the Lady of Lothlorien had known that she was eavesdropping? The thought made Lalaith want to fidget uncomfortably. 

"Please tell Lady Galadriel that I am alright." It was a blatant lie, but what else was she to say? Galadriel would think her absolutely pathetic - in fact, she already felt absolutely pathetic - for weeping over a situation that she had created in the first place. "And thank her for her concern." 

Haldir nodded his head. Lalaith felt strangely awkward. What was this tension between them? Why? She was not normally shy, and Haldir did not strike her as being such either. As he turned to take his leave, she couldn't help wondering if he could feel it too.

"I am sorry," Haldir said abruptly, turning back towards her. "I am sure you feel the tension between us."

 _Are you telepathic?_ Lalaith thought, dumbfounded. How had he spoken up about what she had been thinking not seconds prior? Of course, it was likely that it was just coincidental, but the timing was ludicrous nevertheless. 

"I believe the fault is with me," continued Haldir, much to Lalaith's confusion. "I cannot help thinking about you after I heard your story." 

"Haldir, you realize that this sounds rather...unprofessional, do you not?" Lalaith asked. She saw the flash of embarrassment in Haldir's eyes and got her answer; yes, he was aware, but he likely wanted to hurry and diffuse the tension between them before any misunderstandings were made. 

"I do, yes," he said. "But I do not wish to leave this hanging between us."

Wishing she could have kept her mouth shut, Lalaith gestured for him to continue. 

"I admit you have piqued my interest, Lalaith," Haldir admitted. His ineptly-worded statement made her brain spin with the possible insinuations. She scolded herself. She was not an adolescent elf anymore. Granted, she was still young, but those inappropriate thoughts about the other gender had to cease. She was not experienced with notions such as romance - Lord Elrond had taken great care to shelter Nymíriel and Arwen from such things - but she realized that Lalaith would have to become more accustomed to it and not be reduced to a tongue-tied youth when such things happened to her. She was not under Lord Elrond's protective wing any longer. 

"We are blessed to live in these times of peace, after the fall of Morgoth and Sauron," Haldir elaborated, "And because of this, elves seldom perish, especially in Lothlorien under our lord and lady. And yet, your parents have passed into the Undying Lands." 

Was that why she had interested him? Because he believed her parents were dead? Well, Lalaith thought, it was a rather macabre reason to be fascinated with a person, unless - 

"Is it the same for your mother?" she asked. There was no reason to mention his father, as Haldir had already informed her of his father's passing. But his mother, as well?

"Did she choose to sail for Valinor?"

The look in Haldir's eyes told her all that she needed to know. Lalaith's chest lurched with guilt. He was interested in her because he believed he'd found a kindred spirit, someone to share his pain. And yet, she had lied to him. Her parents were not dead, and he remained alone. Be that as it may, she thought miserably, she could not even apologize for her actions, lest she be found out. 

Lalaith did not say anything. Nymíriel had not lost her parents to death, but she had still lost her mother to trauma. She understood how empty and meaningless words of comfort sounded, so, she merely placed a hand gently on Haldir's shoulder and tried to ignore the look of surprise that he gave her.

"Our parents are all in the light of the Valar now," she whispered. "We are living proof that they have existed in Middle Earth. I intend to walk with pride bearing this role that my parents have given me. You should do the same,  _mellon._ "

Perhaps it was overbearing of her to call Haldir "my friend" so soon into their acquaintance, but, even if she had not shared the full extent of his experience, her heart ached for this lonely elf in front of her. To lose his parents was harrowing enough, and to make matters worse, she was sure that his peers did not understand his pain, as elf deaths were rare during this time. She wished he didn't have to feel so...alone. 

"Thank you." Haldir's voice was strained and somewhat cold. Lalaith understood. It was too early between them for him to be showing her such vulnerability, especially because she was a stranger, someone he had met only a few days ago. And yet...on some level, she understood. If Lalaith found anyone who was like her, anyone whose very nature clashed against the society they lived in, she would be so relieved to find a person who understood her. She doubted she would be able to hold back anything from such a person. 

 _But that is not what I am to Haldir,_ Lalaith reminded herself.  _I am not his kindred spirit. He believes I am, but it is only because I have fooled him._ It made her want to embrace Haldir and weep.  _He opens himself slightly to me, thinking that I understand him, but I cannot._

"I should go," Haldir said abruptly. He brushed her hand off of his shoulder and reached for the doorknob, opening the door. Lalaith winced internally; clearly, he had felt uncomfortable with the gesture. "I am sorry," she said, but Haldir cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"Do not be," he told her. "Your words today have proved a surprising comfort to me, Lalaith. Thank you." 

He closed the door before she could respond. Lalaith stared after him. She did not recognize the happiness seeping into her body until it overflowed and she smiled. 

She did not know Haldir well, if at all. She thought him kind, lonely, and she felt sympathy for him, but that was all. And yet, the knowledge that she had been of help to someone made her beam with happiness. It probably made her a little pathetic, she reflected, to be so ridiculously glad to be of use, but at that moment, she didn't care. 

_It is quite pleasant to have helped someone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must admit, Lalaith/Nymíriel is quite the drama queen. People might see her as stupid for believing that Elrond will be happy that she left, but remember: Nymíriel has seen Elrond get frustrated/angry/worried/enraged at her recklessness. She's always felt sorry, but at the same time, she doesn't want to give up who she is. I guess you can say she's quite selfish, in a way. In her mind, the only way she can avoid hurting Elrond and remaining who she is is to leave, and in her mind, considering how troublesome she was to her father, her disappearance will be like a burden lifted from his shoulders. She thinks he might not see it that way at first, but that he'll get over it eventually.


	5. Chapter 5

_She slipped amongst the throng of people, walking side by side with her companion, a beauty with long, midnight black hair, pale skin, and eyes that were pure silver. The two women had been friends for countless years, as far back as they could remember. Others around them found it quite odd. One was frivolous and mischievous, and one was wise, mature beyond counting years. Why did they get along so?_

_Neither of the two women cared. Opposites attracted, they said, and it applied to their friendship. They would not change any part about each other._

_"Have you set your sights on another yet?" the beauty with eyes of stark grey asked in a tone laced with amusement. Her voice held a rich baritone that would not traditionally be considered feminine, but it somehow blended effortlessly with her effortless grace and elegance. It was a voice that was soothing and could prompt anyone, even the most distrustful, wounded animal, to relax._

_"Not yet," the other replied. Unlike the silver-eyed woman, her voice was nectar-sweet, delicate, almost saccharine. It had been known to overwhelm the ears of many a man with its aromatic quality. The woman with silver eyes could certainly testify to the power over men that her friend's mere voice granted her. "But I am searching." Her lilting voice now took on a measure of mischief._

_"It is beyond me how our father puts up with your flights of fancy," the pale-eyed woman chided. "He favors you greatly, for a strange reason that most cannot comprehend."_

_"Who would deny themselves the pleasure of my company?" the sweet-voiced one laughed modestly. "My pastimes seem to have quite enjoyed it."_

_"That is only because you toy with them," the silver-eyed woman chided, eliciting a shrug from her friend._

_"I do take the time to warn them, you are aware," she said. "That I do not love. And yet they tumble head-over-heels, enamored with me."_

_Her friend rolled her eyes, but even such a sardonic move appeared refined and dignified when executed by that particular woman. She could make anything look regal, that was her strength, mature and queenly and noble, aloof and distant and superior yet admirable. Conversely, her friend could make anything appear alluring, desirable, enticing. They were two vastly different forms of femininity, and yet their closeness was undeniable._

_"But being enamored is not love," the sweet-voiced one admitted. "As I do not love, none of them have loved me. They believe they are, like fools, but not once were their feelings toward me remotely close to love."_

_"You say that so matter-of-factly," the pale-eyed woman noticed. "It never ceased to amaze me how unbothered you remain."_

_This caused the other to shrug again. It was obvious from the airy jerk of her shoulders that she truly could not have cared less. "It takes far more than a honeyed voice and beauty to fall in love. And those two things are all that I have, and all they see me for. I have accepted it. In truth, it has been something that has not even required accepting. I was born aware of it and it has never troubled me."_

_"You do not even allow your closest friend the courtesy of understanding you," the one with the silver gaze laughed. "All the same, I am curious as to how you would react if you truly fell in love."_

_The immediate response was a melodic laugh. "Surely you jest," the sweet-voiced one commented, full of mirth. "If nothing else, I am confident in this alone. I will never fall in love. I was not made for it."_

* * *

_She stared at the two siblings, collapsed in the grass. The older one, the girl, had a tight hold on her younger brother, who was sobbing loudly. The girl's face, however, was stony cold. She had seen that face plenty of times before. The girl was trying to be strong for her younger brother._

_In front of them was a single, smooth, stone. It had been all the siblings had been able to find to mark the final resting place of their father, who had passed from illness all but two days ago. She could feel the violent sorrow emanating from the two souls. They were so young, she mused, and yet they had lost their only guidance in life. Now the younger brother must look to his sister, still practically a child herself, for protection, and she must look to only herself._

**_Death is not complete without sadness,_ ** _she mused. **If there was no sadness in death, it would have no meaning.** This fact made her feel incredibly melancholy. To require sorrow to have meaning seemed like the worst thing in the world. And yet there were so many such things. Death. War. Grief. Life itself. None of those were whole without sadness, and it seemed to color the world entirely grey and black. _

_She was not normally one to think like this. Or rather, these negative thoughts did often touch her head, but she ignored them in favor of more enjoyable pastimes. The ways of the world she could not change; thus, it was no use to dwell upon them. Better to turn a blind eye._

_She turned away, leaving the siblings in their grief._

* * *

  _"You always do this." He fought to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but the calculating gleam in her eyes told him that she noticed it anyway._

_"I have already advised you to give it up," she responded. Her voice was gentle, tone understanding but not sorry, and it drove him mad. "That is easy for you to say," he snapped. "You are heartless!"_

_"Perhaps I am." He couldn't fathom how she could stay calm, but she had ever been this way. Immovable and unruffled as a mountain was unaffected by wind. She did not waver in the face of his accusations. One would argue that she had merely gotten used to them - Eru knew that he threw them at her often enough - but they both were aware that it was not true. Even his first accusation had bounced off of her like an arrow off of dragonscale._

_"But this is me," she continued. "I warned you when this began. It is you who chose not to heed my warning."_

_"It is not that I have chosen not to," he retorted sharply. "I have no control over these matters. You know this."_

_"Perhaps," was her response. "But I assure you. You are wrong in believing such a thing. It is not the first time I have heard a person say that to me, and it will not be the last. And all of them will have been false."_

_"That is not true." His voice, even to his ears, sounded like broken glass. He felt as if there was a boulder pressed against his chest, constricting his lungs. "How can you say that?"_

_"I say it **because** it is true," her voice was gentle, sickeningly gentle. How could she look at him with such cool eyes? How could she accept such things about herself? "It is not what you think it is. You and everyone before you have believed it, but it is wrong, why can they - and you - not understand that? Is it so hard?" _

_"I know what I am feeling!" he shouted. He was not normally a person who lost his temper easily. In fact, he seldom did. And yet, she had been driving him mad since the very beginning. She seemed to always know exactly how to worm her way under his skin with innocence and indifference radiating from her. What sort of sorcery had Eru granted this woman?_

_"You do not."_

_He grabbed her forearms and shook her, hard enough for her to wince. Pain flashed across her visage, but she said nothing, head held high, facing him. He started as he realized he was hurting her and released his grip._

_"The choice is yours." Her voice was cold. "You can continue, knowing things will never progress further, and live with the so-called pain. Or you can realize your own folly and give up, and spare yourself. This is my final warning to you."_

_She runs a hand, pale, slender, beautiful, glowing with silver-blue light, across his shoulder, as if stroking him in reassurance. And then she walked away, leaving him in his thoughts. He watches her leave until her figure has vanished into the distance. Her stride is airy, graceful, dignified, and she does not look back even once._

* * *

Lalaith slipped between pillars, patting her head to ensure that the tight bun that she had arranged her long, ebony locks into was not coming lose. She had done her very best to make herself unremarkable for this occasion. 

Lord Elrond was leaving Lothlorien. He had stayed for only a day before he had declared that he must leave to continue his search for his daughter. Lalaith wished he would just give it up. He would not find the Nymíriel he was searching for, and he was simply wasting his time. How important was Nymíriel, anyway? She was an outright detrimental daughter to Lord Elrond.

She didn't think she could bear to miss seeing his departure. It would truly be the last time that she saw the lord of Rivendell. There was a lump lodged in her throat that seemed to be making breathing increasingly difficult. Was this really the last?

 _It has to be,_ she told herself firmly.  _This is for not just your good, but for Rivendell's, and for Lord Elrond's._

She halted in her tracks when she saw the retinue of Rivendell elves. Ducking behind a small group of elves also watching the departure of Elrond, she carefully peered around them. At the head of the Rivendell elves, there he was. He looked even more exhausted than when she had last seen him, even though only a day had passed, even though he should have gotten much rest in Caras Galadhorn. Lalaith's heart wrenched, but she sank her teeth into her inner cheek and ignored it. 

Galadriel and Celeborn had also come to witness Elrond's leaving. The three ancient elves conferred. Lalaith could make out their conversation. She felt guilty for eavesdropping, but felt that this was something she must hear at all costs.

"Thank you for your time," Lord Elrond murmured. His voice was heavy with worry, sorrow, yet held a still impatient lilt to continue searching for Nymíriel, no doubt, Lalaith thought bitterly. "If you should hear any word of Nymíriel, please do let me know."

"Do not worry," Galadriel replied. "You will be the first we send word to." 

Elrond nodded his head and turned away. The overwhelming desire to run out and embrace him suddenly swamped Lalaith. She started forward, almost involuntarily. She felt elves level her with bewildered stares as she practically pushed past them to approach the Lord of Rivendell. 

_"If you were not my daughter, this would not have happened."_

She froze in her tracks. 

What did she think she was doing? Did she truly think she could return to Rivendell like nothing had happened? Elves were dead because of Nymíriel. Lord Elrond might be distressed at her vanishing, but he would be the only one, and soon he too would be glad of it. Gone, she could cause him no more trouble, and bring no more danger upon Rivendell.

She would be a fool to return.

 _I will not go back,_ Lalaith vowed. She melted into the crowd once more, her heart pounding in fear that Lord Elrond - or any of the Rivendell elves that knew her face - had spotted her. Yet none of them moved or showed any particular reaction, so, she realized, none of them had spotted her. Thank the Valar.

From her position, she forced herself to stay deathly still as Lord Elrond and his entourage took their leave. Every second seemed to last an eternity. That part of her, again, bellowed that she leap into her father's arms before it was too late, before her chance was lost. She bit her lip. 

 _I will not,_ she told herself,  _I will not, I will not, I will not, I will not, I will not, **I will not. I must not.**_

She did not know how she had managed to exercise enough willpower to remain where she stood as she watched the Rivendell elves leave. First Lord Elrond disappeared from view, then the elf behind him, then the elf behind that elf, then the elf behind that elf, until the last elf was gone and her chance was gone with them. 

_It's better this way._

Lalaith wanted to turn and run, but she forced herself to remain in place. Her senses seemed to have faded out, all except sight, as she stared, stone-still, at the point in which Lord Elrond and his entourage and vanished. 

She did not move for quite a while.


	6. Chapter 6

A knock at her door drew Lalaith out of her reverie. She had returned to her guest chamber after Lord Elrond's departure and had been staring blankly at the wall. An entire day must have passed since she had gone into her self-inflicted isolation. She could not forget the sight of his haunted, distressed face. Lalaith had asked herself, several times, if she regretted what she was doing. Did she truly want to return to Rivendell?

But if she did return, she would be tied down once more. She would besmirch Lord Elrond's reputation. Who knew what other destructions her folly would bring into Rivendell? She could not bear to have more blood on her hands. 

And yet...

She had not been able to finish that thought before hearing the three taps. Trying to stitch her composure back together so she did not look like Morgoth had stolen her soul, Lalaith moved to the door and opened it. In front of her loomed the gut-wrenchingly beautiful Lady of Lothlorien. 

Lalaith found herself bowing her head deeply, practically on instinct. "My lady." She managed not to stammer, moving aside for the ancient elf to enter the room. In truth, she had been wanting to see Galadriel, but had never had the courage to seek her out. She wanted to know why the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien had guarded her secret against Lord Elrond, but at the same time, she feared they thought less of her after his visit. What sort of elleth - or ellon - allowed a father to suffer so? Part of her feared that they now saw her as heartless for being able to bear Lord Elrond's suffering after seeing the extent of his distress firsthand. 

"Lalaith." Galadriel's voice held nothing but warmth. "You are troubled, child."

Lalaith didn't bother trying to refute her statement. She wasn't going to lie to herself, and lying to Lady Galadriel seemed like folly. 

"There is something that has been on my mind for quite a while, my lady," she spoke. 

"You are wondering why Celeborn and I did not alert Elrond of your presence in Lothlorien, are you not?" Lalaith could not say she was surprised at Galadriel's flawless - was it intuition? Some sixth sense that came with the wisdom of someone like the Lady of Lothlorien? Or perhaps a look into Lalaith's own heart? Regardless, she nodded. 

"It is because I have seen that it will not do for you to return to Lord Elrond," Galadriel told her. Lalaith's heart skipped a beat. What could that possibly mean? Was it that...maybe she had been correct all along. Nymíriel had never been meant to remain Lord Elrond's daughter. Their paths had inevitably diverged. The Valar had a different route in store for her, it seemed.

Lalaith could not deny the hollow sadness that seemed to gape in her soul upon her realization. Her father - no. He was truly not her father now. Lord Elrond and she, they were meant to part. She was sure of it now. 

"I must apologize for my rudeness in eavesdropping," she admitted to the Lady of Lothlorien. Galadriel shook her head gracefully. "Not at all, young one," she replied. "It is something that I am glad that you heard. Lord Elrond cares for you and sorrows in your loss, as you must have realized listening to him."

"Yes," Lalaith whispered. "But I cannot go back."

"It seems that you indeed cannot, my child," Galadriel said gently. "I also wish to give you the news: Elrond's sons Elladan and Elrohir have left Greenwood today."

Lalaith perked up upon hearing the names of Nymíriel's two brothers. "Elladan and Elrohir left Greenwood?" she repeated. "Whyever would they do that, my lady?"

"It appears that Elrond has called them back," the Lady of Light replied. "I do not blame him. I would wish to have all of my children about me in the event that one of them vanished." Something faraway and sorrowful flitted through her deep blue eyes, and Lalaith suspected that Galadriel was thinking of her own daughter, the lady Celebrian, sailing for the Undying Lands after losing her will to remain in Middle Earth. Another pang of guilt permeated Lalaith's body, and she fought down a wince.

"You must know this to make your next move, Lalaith," continued Galadriel. "You are making preparations to leave Lothlorien, are you not?" 

"I am," Lalaith admitted. She found that her mind (if not her body) was growing increasingly restless in Caras Galadhon, what with the awkwardness that had sprung up between herself and Haldir and her fear that her recklessness would bring strife to the beautiful city. The very morning that Lord Elrond had arrived, she had woken up with the pressing desire to gallop at full speed on the back of a horse; something that was not going to happen in a bustling city such as Caras Galadhon. The splendor of Lothlorien was breathtaking, but Lalaith knew it was not for her.

"Come to me for anything you need." It was all but an order - gentle and not at all demanding, but firm and authoritative nevertheless. However, Lalaith could not fathom being ungrateful enough to dare ask for supplies. The hospitality she had received in Lothlorien was so kind; she could not possibly ask for more. Besides, she disliked being in the debt of others. 

"I'm afraid I cannot, my lady," she declined. "You have already done more for me than I deserve. I will manage from here out." 

Galadriel smiled. "You are indeed a stubborn and prideful one, Lalaith," she commented, causing the younger elf's cheeks to heat in embarrassment. "You remind me of myself when I was younger."

Lalaith's eyes widened at that statement. She...like Galadriel? She could not reconcile the ethereal, heavenly, Galadriel of now with anyone remotely similar to herself. How could it be that she reminded Galadriel of a younger her? 

"I, too, was willful," Galadriel recalled. "It has not come without a cost. You see, Lalaith, I am banned from the Undying Lands." At her words, Lalaith could not contain the look of utter surprise that flashed across her face. Galadriel, banned from the Undying Lands? Why? Why would such a flawless elf be banned from Valinor? Was she not of the exact nature that the Valar would welcome with open arms and open hearts? There were many elleths in Arda who could only hope to be like the Lady of Light. 

"It is because I declined the first invitation of the Valar, long ago," the Lady of Lothlorien continued her narrative. "Perhaps they were offended by my ingratitude. Worry not," she added, noticing how shaken Lalaith still appeared at the unexpected discovery. "I do not regret my decision. I am content in Middle Earth and have no wish to return to Valinor."

Lalaith found that she was awed by Galadriel's adaptability. She wondered if she would ever be able to put to rest her doubts about Nymíriel and Lord Elrond. If so, she wished the day would come quickly. Every time her thoughts traveled to the father and family that Nymíriel had left behind, her chest ached dully. 

"However, I do oft find myself wondering," continued the ancient elf, "My mother and father dwell in Valinor, and the souls of my brothers live there as well. What has become of them? Are they treated kindly by the Valar? Do they have disputes and arguments between them? I even realize at times that it is possible they are all completely estranged from each other."

If Lalaith was surprised by the words Galadriel had spoken to her before, she was struck utterly speechless now. To think that the Lady of Light had such concerns and wishes weighing on her mind. Her idealized image of Galadriel was warping, but it was not an unpleasant thing; merely shocking. The realization that Galadriel was not, in fact, infallible or all-knowing or unconcerned at any problem due to her great power was crashing down upon her like the icy waters of the fountains in Rivendell during the winter. 

Galadriel smiled knowingly, and Lalaith knew that the Lady of Lothlorien was aware of what was happening in her head. 

"You see," the High Elf murmured. "We are not so different as you may think. Being older does not make one less fearful or less uncertain, Lalaith; quite the opposite, in fact. I notice that with every passing century, my burdens grow heavier. I watch the younger elves and do find that I envy what I see as their carefreeness." 

Lalaith considered Galadriel's words. She was but five decades of age; extremely, extremely young and inexperienced. And yet she had many worries, many thoughts that plagued her mind. She imagined, for a few moments, being thousands and thousands of years old, and those worries, those thoughts, never being resolved but continuing to grow more numerous. The end result of those thousands of years - oh, she did not even want to imagine it. How foolish of her to think that age lessened burdens. Perhaps age had its benefits - experience, wisdom, greater intuition. And yet, Lalaith wondered, could those be considered benefits? At face value, they seemed to be such, but she now saw that those things might lead to more sadness, more concerns, more burdens.

And Galadriel, she had heard, had been born the Years of the Trees, before the Sun and the Moon themselves. The utter magnitude of such a span of time was not quite registering in Lalaith's mind. And in front of her stood Galadriel, having lived and lost and suffered that entire stretch. 

"I think I see the meaning in your words," Lalaith said slowly. She gazed up at the Lady of Lothlorien. The warmth and a newfound respect spread throughout her chest. She had not believed she could be more in awe of Nymíriel's grandmother, but it proved a falsehood. 

Galadriel smiled. "As thanks for imparting some old womanly wisdom on you, will you not accept some assistance?"

Lalaith realized that the reverent fear that she had felt around Galadriel was beginning to wane. She credited the Lady of Lothlorien for being able to admit vulnerabilities in front of others for their slightly more comfortable relationship. She did not know if she had the strength of mind to do the same. Letting one's guard down around others was no easy task. 

"It seems that I cannot refuse," she replied, smiling, for the first time, back at Galadriel.

* * *

"We wish you the safest of journeys, Lalaith," Galadriel said, smiling at the younger elf as she mounted the newly rested and fed Swiftwind. 

"Thank you, my lady," Lalaith replied, bowing her head towards the Lady of Lothlorien. "My lord," she added, bowing her head towards Celeborn as well. Celeborn returned it with a nod. His gaze on her was thoughtful. 

Lalaith's bow and quiver of arrows were slung over her shoulder, and her sword and daggers were attached securely to her belt. Hanging off the saddle was the satchel that Lady Galadriel had given her. It contained a warm [riding coat](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UD2BFfEyDNU/USKhHqFBCTI/AAAAAAAABKU/RcweUrBC0ZE/s640/arwen_costume.jpg) that the Lady of Light had gifted Lalaith with personally. In another, smaller, pouch was two loaves of Lembas bread and three flagons of water. 

It had been three days since her conversation with Galadriel, and Lalaith found that she was able to look the much older elf in the eye and not feel so awed. Though it had been Galadriel she had spoken to, the young she-elf found that the ease she felt thanks to the Lady of Lothlorien's words of wisdom had extended to other ancient elves, including Celeborn. She found that she could see him as a person with his own desires, concerns, and conflicts, and no longer felt so intimidated to be in his presence. 

 "Where will you be going?" Galadriel questioned. 

"I believe I will be heading to Greenwood," Lalaith told her. "Now that my brothers have left it, I think it would be an interesting place."

"Will you stay there long?" Celeborn asked. 

"I do not know," admitted Lalaith. "But I do wish to see the cultures of the Wood-Elves." 

Galadriel nodded. "I do believe you will be fascinated by the ways of Greenwood, Lalaith," she informed the younger elf. 

Lalaith smiled. "I think so too, but please do not spoil their customs for me, my lady. I wish to see and experience them with my own eyes, and marvel."

Warm amusement flashed in the Lady of Light's eyes. "Why," Lalaith was delighted to hear that there was a lilt of playfulness in her tone, "I had no intention to. You wound me greatly, Lalaith." Behind his wife, the ebony-haired she-elf saw Celeborn smile. It made her slightly lightheaded, the realization that she had caused mirth in two elves so ancient and powerful. 

 _You treat them better than you treat your own father,_ a voice hissed in her head. The warm feeling that had been spreading about her chest from making Galadriel and Celeborn smile cooled unpleasantly, but Lalaith managed to keep smiling. At the same time, however, the words cut her deeply. Nymíriel had never been able to incite the same lighthearted mirth in her own father. All she had caused him was worry, worry, and more worry.

 _That is why I cannot return,_ she told the voice.  _Nymíriel was not a good daughter. She was not even a decent one._

"You are always welcome in Lothlorien, Lalaith," Celeborn spoke up, making eye contact with her. Lalaith thought she could read something in his eyes: a message that exuded familial tenderness.  _After all,_ she could imagine it saying,  _you are our granddaughter._

 _I am not,_ she thought,  _I cannot be._

Nevertheless, she bowed her head. "Thank you."

"There is no need for thanks," replied the Lord of Lothlorien. "We would never turn an elf in want of a home away from our protection."

Lalaith had not spent long in Lothlorien, but she had come to understand, quite clearly, why Galadriel and Celeborn were so renowned and so beloved among the Eldar. Wise and powerful, protective and kind, she knew she would never stop being grateful toward them for their hospitality toward her. And Galadriel had taught her an invaluable lesson.

"Go now, child," Galadriel told her, taking her hand gently. The older elf's skin was smooth and warm and somehow soothed Lalaith. She felt that everything would be alright, if only for a moment. "Our blessings are behind you."

"Farewell, my lord and lady," Lalaith said her goodbyes, bowing her head one last time. "Eru willing, we will see each other again one day." The lord and lady nodded. 

At Lalaith's prompting, Swiftwind trotted forward at a brisk pace. The young elf could feel the gazes of Galadriel and Celeborn as she passed under the archway of the entrance of Caras Galadhon and into the forests of Lothlorien. 

Her destination was now Greenwood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was reviewing the story, I realized that despite Lalaith/Nymíriel being described as an independent, rebellious, playful, and sort of...sharp(?) character, she hasn't really shown many instances of such traits. Sorry about that; it's because, at this point in the story, she's surrounded by/reminded of characters that she can't help be in awe of (Galadriel, Celeborn) or characters that she feels apologetic towards (Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir). Now that Galadriel has "taught" her not to be so utterly reverent of older elves, I think I'll have more of an opportunity to let her casual side through. Besides that, she's still in conflict over trying to abandon her old identity. 
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet what she found herself facing did not strike her as someone she would have to use force with. The source of the voice was an ellon, hair of white-blonde settled about his shoulders, blue eyes wide with - was that awe? - and expression full of - wonder? His mouth was slightly agape as if he was staring at a ghost.

_"Concentrate, Nymíriel."_

_The advice flew straight over the head of the seven-year-old elfling who was holding her hand over the sapling, her eyes pressed closed._

_Elrond watched his daughter curiously. Quite frankly, Nymíriel was extremely young to be attempting any magic. Most elves passed at least their twentieth name day before they attempted their hand at the supernatural arts. Yet his younger daughter was an ambitious, strong-willed child. If ever there was an elfling who would give such an implausible act a try, it was [Name]._

_To his astonishment, the sapling, covered under the shadow of Nymíriel's small hand, began to grow before his eyes. It blossomed into a small, thin young tree, dotted with lush green leaves and even a few small red buds. Elrond had not at all been expecting his daughter's efforts to bear any fruit, however much he smiled at her willfulness._

_And yet, her attempt had proved to be successful! His eyes settled on the small form of Nymíriel , now squealing and clapping with delight - fundamentally unaware of what her feat meant. Never had Elrond seen an elf to possess such affinity for magic! He was not the most ancient elf in Middle-Earth - far from it - but he was old. And his daughter had managed to surprise him._

_He wondered if the Valar had some great destiny in mind for the little elfing._

Lalaith's eyes flew open. As consciousness returned, the sound of crickets chirping, insects scuttling through the grass, small animals making their way through the sparse vegetation, hit her harshly, pulling her fully into the realm of wakefulness. 

What was that, she wondered as she sat up from where she leaned against the tree trunk. It had not been her memory. She could remember that time, decades ago, where Nymíriel had caused a sapling to sprout, but the thoughts had not been her own; they were clearly those of Lord Elrond. 

It unnerved Lalaith. Why would she have a dream from Lord Elrond's perspective? Was he sifting through his own memories of Nymíriel and had somehow projected the scene, from his point of view, into her head? Was such a thing even possible? 

Most concerning of all, it implied that there was still some connection between Lalaith and Nymíriel's father. That could not happen! She must somehow sever all bonds between them! But how would she do that, when she had absolutely no knowledge or skill in magic?

It had been a strange thing. When she had been young, Nymíriel had displayed an enormous affinity for magic. Lalaith remembered the elves around her marveling at her raw power. She had the potential to be as powerful as Lady Galadriel, some had said,  _if not more._

And yet, one day, not even a moon after, her ability had simply...vanished. She had been unable to conjure the flashes of light whose brilliance she loved to admire, she had been unable to call on plants to grow and admire their lush vigor, she had been unable to peer discreetly into the minds of others, and her childish singing no longer attracted animals to listen or earned her enchanted stares.

No one, not even Lady Galadriel, who had examined her granddaughter, had been able to explain the bizarre phenomenon. It was unheard of for an elf's magical ability to simply  _disappear,_ least of all when she held so much potential. 

Nymíriel had cried bitterly when even Galadriel had declared herself unable to make a proper diagnosis. She had loved delving into her powers and exploring what she was able to do, and to have it taken away from her - and so soon, too! - had felt cruel. But she could not mope forever, and she had quickly resolved to put her disappointment behind her and better herself in other ways. Thus had begun her training with the sword, daggers, bow and arrow, horseback riding, all of which initially Lord Elrond had heartily disapproved of. She was too young, he had feared, and she would injure herself. 

Nymíriel 's first teachers had been her brothers Elladan and Elrohir, more than a hundred years older than her; they had presented her with practice blades and sparred with her, honing her skills. When she was older, at age ten, they had introduced her to the bow and arrow, teaching her the proper form required to shoot straight. And when she was twelve, they had each offered to take her on a ride, explaining the proper techniques of horseback riding. 

Lalaith's cheeks felt bizarrely cold. Reaching up to warm them, she realized they were damp. She was crying. She cursed in her head. Why could she not stop herself from thinking of days long past? She had to rid herself of the habit of thinking back to Nymíriel and her life. 

But what else  _was_ there to think about? 

Lalaith sighed, realizing she could not produce an answer for that very important inquiry. As if sensing her distress, Swiftwind trotted over and folded his legs from under him, placing his head in her lap. Lalaith stroked the horse's jet-black muzzle and ran her long fingers through his equally jet-black mane. 

"Thank Eru you are here with me, at least," she murmured, pressing her lips to his nose. Swiftwind nickered, raising his head to her face and delivering her an affectionate lick. Lalaith smiled, nuzzling his snout. A surge of warmth heated her in the chilly night air. 

It might seem strange to cling onto the company of a horse, but he was all that Lalaith had now, and she had loved him and cared for him since he was a colt. He was a comforting presence to have next to her, and, Lalaith suspected, it was only thanks to him that she was beginning to feel drowsy again. 

Soon, she was asleep.

* * *

Lalaith held the reins loosely in her hands, reveling in the feeling of galloping across the open plains. Below her, she could feel Swiftwind's powerful muscles at working, rippling and moving and carrying them through the fields. Her ebony hair, tied back into a long ponytail, streamed behind her. Her cheeks were cold in a pleasant way, and exhilaration was rushing through her veins. 

She was riding north, having just crossed River Ninglor, and was headed towards Old Ford, where she would take the Old Forest Road into Greenwood. 

Greenwood, she thought. She wondered how the wood-elves would react to having a willing visitor who had, of her own volition, ridden into the domain of the Elvenking. Greenwood was a beautiful place, she had heard, full of life and wild animals and lovely, unique flowers, but their king was frosting over with every passing moon. 

She wondered what had become of King Thranduil's only child, the Prince Legolas. She did not know much about the heir to Greenwood, not even when he had been born - she had never paid attention. All she was aware of was his name. But now, she found herself curious about him. Was his father cold to him, as well? What father would be cold to his only remaining child, though, especially after the child's mother was lost?

Lalaith remembered that Nymíriel's own father had become even more protective of her after Lady Celebrian had been captured by Orcs. He had doubled their number of guards and had insisted that they never be left alone when going anywhere, even merely to the gardens. Nymíriel had found this sudden behavior disconcerting, but she had accepted it as natural behavior from a concerned father. 

Then again, she thought, every elf was different. Perhaps King Thranduil did not want Prince Legolas to see him showing weakness because of his wife's death and had grown distant. Perhaps he could not bear to look at his son and have cause to think about the beloved that he had lost. 

She found herself sympathetic towards this Prince Legolas. Nymíriel knew the feeling of losing one's mother all too well, and that knowledge had not spared Lalaith either. King Thranduil's queen had passed seven decades ago - not a truly lengthy amount of time for elves. She would not be surprised if she found a realm in quiet mourning in Greenwood. 

And yet, she was curious. What she had heard of the wood-elves painted a very different image to the elves she so often imagined. In Rivendell, there was grand architecture, beautiful fountains, regal structures carved of stone, with plants growing beautifully, yes, but _tamed_. It was the same in Caras Galadhon. 

But in Greenwood, she heard, they made no effort to control or even inhibit the nature. They let it grow wildly. Even the Elvenking's halls were made of wood and stone, vast and immeasurable. His palace was  _within_ the forest itself, not made on or in it. She wanted to experience the culture of the wood-elves, within whom nature was so ingrained. 

Would it truly be the right place for her, however? After all, she did not feel that King Thranduil would be a sovereign that was lax with his subjects. The little she had heard of him struck her as a controlling king; but then again, she could not truly judge an elf whom she had yet to even lay eyes on. Besides her misgivings, if she disliked the realm, she could simply leave. 

Where would she go if she left, however? 

Lalaith decided that such questions were for later. Celeborn and Galadriel had assured her of a place in Lothlorien, so it was not as if it was a pressing matter. For now, her goal was to make it to Mirkwood.

To do that, she must cross the Anduin river. 

* * *

Lalaith was on the Old Forest Road. 

Swiftwind had slowed to a brisk canter, for she did not wish to go barreling straight into the unknown. She doubted the wood-elves would appreciate an unknown horse with an unknown rider galloping full speed through their lands like a madwoman fleeing from Manwë's wrath. Besides that, it was quite foolhardy to ride at a gallop through a forest as dense as Greenwood. The last thing she needed was her mount and only companion injuring his leg, or worse. 

 They had been on the path for quite a while, and it was not long before Lalaith could see the vast greenery of Greenwood the Great stretching in front of her. Awed, she could do nothing but stare silently as she got ever closer to the entrance of the forest; however, just beyond the treeline, something caught her eye, and she bade Swiftwind halt in favor of examining it.

It was a beautifully carved statue. The facial features were feminine and exquisitely lovely, with large eyes, full, pouty lips, high cheekbones, and a small, sculpted nose. Lalaith stared at it, strangely entranced. The statue looked utterly timeless, despite the fact that a few vines were creeping over it. 

How long had it been there? Judging by the vines, it had been erected here quite for a long time, but not for an extremely, extremely lengthy amount. Perhaps...several decades? 

It clicked in Lalaith's mind. Decades. King Thranduil's wife had passed seven decades ago. Had the statue been built in her honor, or was it mere coincidence? Then again, Lalaith thought, if the rumors of the Elvenking's increasing iciness were true, he had loved his lady dearly. It would make sense for him to erect a statue in her memory. The thought sent sparks of pity through her, but she brushed them off. She doubted King Thranduil would appreciate pity; least of all from an elleth so young and inexperienced. 

Lalaith rode on, Swiftwind trotting easily through the well carved-out path that forged its way through Greenwood. She was sure that they would come across the wood-elven residents of the forest soon enough, for they would surely be patrolling the most popular way to travel through their kingdom. 

She had been within Greenwood's borders for about half an hour - not taking into consideration the several hours she had spent riding before that, for she had risen at the break of dawn to continue her journey - when she decided that she wished to stretch and walk on her own two legs, and that Swiftwind deserved a break. Halting, Lalaith dismounted, allowing herself a moment to reacquaint herself with the feeling of walking by herself. 

Once she had, she began to stroll through the forest lithely, not bothering to hold Swiftwind's reins. Their bond was such that Swiftwind would follow her, and even if he did not, he would know to return to her. 

 Lalaith found that she felt more lighthearted than she had in a long time. It was delightful to simply be walking in the midst of nature, occasionally examining what she found fascinating. Greenwood had many strangely-shaped leaves that she had never seen before, unique and vivid flowers that she was unfamiliar with, and woodland animals such as deer and rabbits and hawks that she had never before gotten within such close proximity to. 

Her cheery mood was compounded and enhanced by the knowledge that she was truly free. Lalaith was a vagabond, her parents dead. There was naught to tie her down anymore. Oh yes, it made her sorrowful that the cost of freedom was [Name]'s severed bond with her family. But it would eventually be better for everyone. Lord Elrond's distress would become gladness eventually. She was sure of it. 

Overcome with a bursting sense of happiness, Lalaith found that she was dancing her way through the forest. She was no stranger to dancing; Nymíriel had done it often, as it had been a skill required of a daughter of an elf-lord as esteemed as Lord Elrond. And she had enjoyed it. Lalaith skipped lightly on the path, executing, gracefully pirouettes, leaping airily, moving her arms fluidly above her head. Nymíriel had not danced since that dreadful night that the warg had carried out its massacre, and the opportunity to be doing it again made her feel practically lightheaded with enjoyment.

"It is impossible."

The sudden voice had Lalaith spinning to face the source, her dancing ceasing with the snap of a finger, her hands already at her daggers before she had fully pinned the speaker with an icy blue glower. 

Yet what she found herself facing did not strike her as someone she would have to use force with. The source of the voice was an ellon, hair of white-blonde settled about his shoulders, blue eyes wide with - was that awe? - and expression full of - wonder? His mouth was slightly agape as if he was staring at a ghost. 

 _Is this some trick?_ Lalaith wondered. She could not think of any reason else why he would be gaping at her so. Was he trying to get her to lower her guard?

"Luthien passed beyond this world thousands of years ago," the ellon murmured. "She cannot be here now."

Luthien?  _Luthien?_ Had she heard this elf correctly? Lalaith now knew why he was staring at her with such reverence and amazement, but the reason was so utterly ridiculous that she was not sure if she was correct, even though everything he had said so far indicated that it was. 

"That is wonderful," she said dryly. "I am sure Luthien's soul is blissful and at peace alongside Beren's. However, sir, I would very much appreciate it if you spoke a sentence that is actually relevant to our current situation." She was still having a difficult time processing the scenario. Was she missing something important?

This elf thought she was  _Luthien?_ Why? From what - she couldn't even think of the words to properly express how ridiculous the situation was. 

"I appreciate that you would compare me to Luthien," Lalaith told the ellon honestly, slowly approaching him. "But I am afraid you are mistaken, and that your confusion is unnecessary. I am not her." There was a part of her that was yet still wondering if this entire thing was a jest, and the ellon would burst out laughing at her for taking the bait.

Yet he simply started, the reverent expression melting from his face, replaced by well-hidden chagrin. Lalaith mentally congratulated herself from not giggling slightly. 

"Forgive me," the ellon stated. "I was simply shocked at your-" he paused, another hint of embarrassment flashing in his eyes. Lalaith smiled. Now that the confusion had been abated, he was quite handsome, she noted, with features that were pleasantly masculine yet strangely effeminate. 

"My beauty?" Lalaith finished for him. The look on his face told her that she had guessed correctly; after all, there wasn't much of anything else to say, not when he had associated her with  _Luthien,_ the most beautiful elf to have ever lived. "Well," she said consideringly, "I am honored that you find me beautiful; I do not disagree, though I do believe it is a stretch to compare me to Luthien."

She looked the ellon up and down. He was dressed in a simple tunic of coarse material, with matching trousers and leather boots. Typical patrol gear, it appeared to be. Sheathed on his back was a pair of daggers. Their wooden hilts had strange patterns carved into them. There did not appear to be any other weapons on him. 

"I am Lalaith," Lalaith told her new acquaintance, offering him her hand. She could not sense any ill intent in this ellon, and felt considerably more relaxed. 

He took her hand and shook it firmly. His skin was warm, and she saw that he was looking her up and down as well, taking in her sword, daggers, and bow and arrow. Something flickered in his eyes as he processed the last weapon, but he was distracted by the appearance of Swiftwind, trotting up behind her, and Lalaith failed to identify the emotion before it was gone.

"A beautiful stallion," the ellon commented, approaching Swiftwind and holding out his hand. Swiftwind stretched his neck forward and sniffed the male elf's hand. As he had with Haldir, her horse was quick to accept the presence of this newcomer thanks to elves' natural affinity with animals. 

"Yes," Lalaith agreed, watching the ellon stroke Swiftwind's nose. 

"Excuse my ill manners," he apologized, turning to her again. "I did not expect that you would have a horse. My name is Legolas."

_Legolas?_

Lalaith stared at him, surprised. What coincidence was this? Who would have thought that of all the wood-elves, the first one she would meet was Legolas, son of King Thranduil?

"What fortune it is that I come across the Prince of Greenwood the Great first, of all wood-elves I could have encountered," she commented. From the way he had casually spoken his name, he did not strike her as one that particularly cared for his royal title. Legolas did not seem like a prince who would like to have sycophants flattering him left and right merely because of his status.

Legolas opened his mouth to respond, but he was cut off by a voice urgently calling, "My prince!" 

Lalaith glanced to her left to see four figures rapidly approaching them, leaping lithely over tree roots and small bushes or ducking particularly low tree branches. Swiftwind's tail lashed in a warning manner, but he did nothing otherwise.

All were holding bows in their hands, she saw as they got closer. They came to a halt, fanning out behind their prince. Four pairs of eyes studied her curiously. Lalaith saw a wide medley of emotions - one pair of eyes conveyed suspicion, one expressed wonder similar to Legolas when he had first seen her, one seemed analytical, as if taking her in, and one seemed outright hostile. However, no one pointed their weapon at her, presumably because they had seen her speaking with their prince without any hint of conflict between the two of them. 

"There is no cause for concern," Legolas told the other elves. "She is not hostile." 

"I am not," Lalaith agreed, shooting a pleasant smile at the elf with aggression in his gaze. The belligerence in his expression was wiped clean at her gesture, replaced by confusion - probably because of her friendliness despite his lack thereof. Even his stance loosened. He was probably a younger elf, Lalaith concluded, and inexperienced, judging from his willingness to be hostile and yet the swiftness with which he lost his composure. 

"Long as it been since we have seen a foreigner in these forests," the one who had looked at Lalaith with analytical eyes told her. "May we ask what you are doing here?" 

"Certainly," Lalaith replied, "for you would need to ask it for my desire to be met. I am Lalaith. I wish to be taken to King Thranduil, if you will forgive my directness."

There was no mistaking the surprised murmurs that the other elves let out at her declaration. Even Legolas looked caught off guard. "Why is that?" he inquired. 

The she-elf shrugged. "Must I have a reason?" she asked. "If you wish to know, I do not have a permanent home. My parents are dead and I wander alone, but as of late I have grown weary of this volatile lifestyle. I would like a little bit more stability."

"We are not known for our hospitality, especially since the passing of our queen," the analytical-eyed one said. "Lord Elrond of Imladris or Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien are much more likely to accept elves in need of a home. Furthermore," his gaze flicked to her ebony-black hair and her pale blue eyes, "forgive me if I cause offense, but I see that you bear Noldorean features. I have never known a Noldorean elf to be orphaned and wandering." 

"Do not worry about offending me," Lalaith reassured him, "for I was expecting such questions. My mother was a relative of Lord Elrond. I inherited my Noldorean features from her. My father was a Silvan elf. Their relationship was disapproved of, so they decided to elope together. During their days as vagabonds, I was born."

"I see," the elf said thoughtfully. "And your parents? Where are they now?"

Lalaith lowered her head, feigning sadness. Though, she wondered, what is entirely feigned? Or was it [Name]'s genuine sadness showing itself as well? Either way, it mattered not if she could fool her audience. "They are dead," she announced somberly. 

Silence came over the group of elves. Legolas' gaze was flooded with sudden compassion. She knew why; having lost his own mother, he could likely understand her pain. The other elves were staring at the ground, some at each other, some at her in shock. 

"I...am sorry," the elf who had looked at her analytically murmured. "May their souls rest in the Halls of Mandos." 

Lalaith waited for the pangs of guilt to make her feel sick again, but, to her surprise, none came. She was calm. She was resolute. This, she realized, was what she must do. If she wished to protect Rivendell from Nymíriel, if she wished to keep her freedom, if she wished to preserve the happiness of her family, she must lie and continue to lie. And she would do so, she told herself. She could do it. It was for everyone she loved. 

"Thank you," she whispered. "I pray for them every day." She allowed more silence to stretch and settle over the six - seven, to count Swiftwind - of them, staring down again at her feet in pretend sorrow.

"As for why I have chosen the Woodland Realm," she continued, once she had deemed the pause long enough, "I am used to living in the wild. It has been my way of life since my birth. I may want a more permanent place to settle, but I wish to keep that aspect of my existence. Greenwood seems to be the only elven realm that can offer both those things."

"I see," the elf responded, though he did not sound entirely convinced. Lalaith could not blame him. Her request and reasoning were rather strange, especially because he was clearly unused to visitors, much less visitors who wished to join his ranks. "Your answers are enough to satisfy me," the elf said despite the misgivings reflected in his voice. "However, I am afraid that you must be taken before our king. He must judge you, and it will be he who decides if you will stay or not." 

Lalaith dipped her head in acceptance. "Of course," she said. "I will happily submit to being brought before King Thranduil."

"Then if you will follow us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the official movie guide, Legolas' birth date is set as TA 87, making him over 200 years old in this story. Tolkien, meanwhile, says nothing about Legolas' age. For the sake of plot, I will be making his birth date TA 214, which means he was seven years old when his mother died, and is currently 77 years old. Based on the fact that 50 years old is when elves 'come of age' to be married, I'm going to say it's the equivalent of 18 years old for a human. This means Legolas is in the elven equivalent of an early twenties age range for a human.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king, like his son, had hair of platinum blonde, but in Thranduil's case, it was much longer, extending down just beyond his mid-back. Also unlike Legolas, Thranduil's hair was pulled back into a loose braid. Even the way it dropped down over his left shoulder seemed undeniably haughty, though Lalaith struggled to comprehend how that was possible.

The Elvenking's halls of wood and stone defied expectation.

Lalaith had, no doubt, been imagining something ornate, powerful, intimidating, but the sheer magnitude of the wood-elves' underground dwelling left her speechless. Her eyes were drawn to every pillar, every corridor, and every room. How had such a place even been built, she wondered as she followed her escorts through the halls. 

It felt good to have her sight back again, especially when the scenery that greeted her was so grand. The elves had insisted that she ride Swiftwind, blindfolded, so that the path to and into their stronghold would not be revealed to an outsider, one of them (the analytical-eyed one) guiding the horse. In addition, all of her weapons had been confiscated. Her bow and arrows had been given to the one who had looked at her suspiciously, her daggers to the one who had looked at her with wonder, and Legolas had taken her sword. Lalaith could not fault their caution. Besides, this was likely King Thranduil's policy.

He must be a rather suspicious one, then, she thought. It was he who she was being brought before now, and it was he who would judge her. She would not be surprised if he rejected her stay in Greenwood. Or did it make him suspicious? What lord would not want an unknown foreigner's weapons confiscated while on his lands?

Besides, she had come all this way. If she were rejected, she could simply leave. Lothlorien was always open for her, the lord and lady themselves had confirmed it.

_Lord. Lady. King. Lady Galadriel. Lord Elrond. Lord Celeborn. King Thranduil._

She wondered again why Thranduil had fashioned himself a king, rather than a lord like the other ruling elves. Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel, and Lord Celeborn had all refused royal titles because they fancied themselves as protectors of their respective realms, rather than rulers. Yet King Thranduil called himself king. That, in itself, said something about his temperament. But what?

Others might say that he was arrogant, but Lalaith would like not to be so quick to jump to such an unfavorable conclusion, though she had certainly entertained the answer that Thranduil was arrogant for calling himself a king. 

What would the king be like? His son Legolas had blue eyes and blonde hair, but that, of course, could be a trait he had inherited from his mother. Legolas was tall, but that, too, could have been from his mother rather than his father. However, from what she garnered so far of the king's personality, Lalaith found herself imagining an elf that was tall, of a powerful frame, and intense. 

Lalaith's skin prickled slightly at the thought of meeting such an elf. She knew he would be quite different from the ancient elves that she was used to. Already, in his stronghold, there was a tension brewing, as if a storm would be unleashed, but no one was certain exactly when. Where in Lothlorien and Rivendell, there had been no tension, only a strong sense of being protected, in Thranduil's stronghold there was a feeling of...almost guardedness. 

Lalaith wondered if it had been like this when the late queen had been alive. Suddenly, the stronghold seemed extremely sorrowful. 

She was being brought along a precarious walkway suspended hundreds of feet into the air, without even any railings to prevent herself from falling, when she first laid eyes on the Elvenking. He was a long distance away - for the walkway was extremely lengthy - but thanks to her elven eyes, Lalaith could clearly make him out, sitting on his throne.

The throne itself was a chair of wood and stone, with ornate carvings that resembled trees and their branches engraved into it. It had large armrests, and from its top protruded a gigantic pair of elk horns. Just in front of the feet of the king was a staircase, carved out of stone as well, that led down to the platform on which the throne rested. The platform, too, was elevated from the walkway with a staircase leading up onto it.

An elevated walkway leading to an elevated platform on which an elevated throne rested. Marvelous. She would not be surprised if the placing was intentional. 

Actually seeing the king himself, Lalaith realized that some aspects of King Thranduil differed from her imagination of him - her imagination of him that she hadn't even been aware fully existed until this moment. Whereas Lalaith had been picturing a king sitting stiff and upright and regal on his throne, Thranduil's pose was relaxed and practically casual, leaned to one side. It was as if he had simply decided to throw himself onto the ornate seat out of boredom and had made himself comfortable. 

However, she noticed, his informal posture perhaps made him seem even more kingly. It was full of confident arrogance and self-assured cockiness; he was above all other beings in this woodland realm, he was aware of it, and he did not bother trying to hide it.

The king, like his son, had hair of platinum blonde, but in Thranduil's case, it was much longer, extending down just beyond his mid-back. Also unlike Legolas, whose hair was unadorned and simply settled about his shoulders, Thranduil's hair was pulled back into a loose braid. Even the way it dropped down over his left shoulder seemed undeniably haughty, though Lalaith struggled to comprehend how that was possible. A simplistic circlet of dark copper, inlaid with dark red gems, rested lightly on his head. 

Thranduil wore a long gray overcoat with a tall collar that enveloped about two-thirds of his neck. The lower section of the overcoat parted to allow his legs, which were clad in dark brown leggings, through. He sat in such a position that said lower limbs were crossed idly, right leg over the left. On his feet were black boots that nearly reached his knees. 

As she and the group escorting her got closer, she could see that his eyes - ice blue like Legolas' - were fixed on her. The pressure of his mere gaze was such that Lalaith had to remind herself to breathe. Thranduil's presence seemed to burned and threatened her merely because she was in his vicinity. As her escorts brought her up the stairs of the platform at the end of the walkway on which the throne rested, Lalaith found herself instinctively wanting to bow from the sheer intensity of his gaze. 

He was beautiful, too, she realized, with wildly attractive facial features, powerful and haughty. If Legolas was noticeably handsome - which he was - his father was intensely striking. What was it with these high elf-lords and their ability to make Lalaith feel like an orc beside them?

The group escorting her all bowed their heads in perfect tandem, leaving Lalaith to glance at them and realize, with much awkwardness, that she was the only one not lowering her head. She was not even sure if she was expected to. 

The other elves straightened, but Thranduil did not so much as glance at them, his stare fixed utterly and totally on her. 

A few courses of possible action darted through Lalaith's mind. She wondered if she should bow, like the other elves. Or perhaps stare back at him? But for a volatile elf-king, that could possibly seem like a challenge. She was trying to be accepted into the Woodland Realm, and it was Thranduil who would decide if she would be or not. Should she try something to stroke his ego? But perhaps he did not appreciate flattery? Did he even  _have_  much of an ego? Was she judging him based too heavily on his appearance and demeanor?

These thoughts all took place within the span of a second. Lalaith knew she must do something, but none of the options she had very briefly considered helped and instead served to only present more questions. So, deciding to ignore her frenzied thoughts, she did none of those things and instead sank into a graceful curtsy, just as Nymíriel had been taught to since a young age. As she rose, she met the king's eyes and offered him a courteous smile, somehow managing to hide the fact that her insides were being gnawed away by nerves. Well, as far as she knew, she hid it. Perhaps Thranduil had seen through her front. 

"Long has it been since a foreign elf has traveled, willingly, into the borders of Greenwood," Thranduil spoke. His voice was deep and rich and naturally imperious, regal without effort, kingly without thought. It shook Lalaith to the core. He was powerful,  _superior_ , and he did not bother trying to hide it. "What business do you have?" 

Lalaith was determined not to break eye contact with the king. In her opinion, doing so would be a sign of weakness, not respect. If she wanted to speak with him and yet could not even look at him in the eye, she doubted Thranduil would take seriously or truly consider anything that came out of her mouth. Still, it was an immense challenge, she realized, not looking away from the King of Greenwood. His eyes were a darker blue than hers, if only by a shade so infinitesimal that she doubted the human eye could make it out. 

"I wish to live here, my lord," she told him, keeping her voice properly deferential (or what she hoped was properly deferential), but not looking away from his intense gaze. She pointedly ignored how bizarre her statement sounded.

Amusement that he did not bother to hide flickered in Thranduil's eyes. "And why is that?" he asked.

Lalaith was grateful, at least, that he had asked her for a reason rather than immediately dismissed her. She reminded herself that Thranduil was ancient - perhaps not as much as Galadriel or Celeborn, but still far older than she, and far wiser. He may not be quick to judge, regardless of her impressions of him. 

Speaking of being wise, she thought, would he even believe her story? Could she fool him?

"I have so far lived as a vagabond, my lord," she told him. "I find that it is tiresome, especially after the deaths of my parents." She paused, lowering her eyes as if in sorrow, and was surprised to realize she, this time, felt genuine sadness, sadness for the deaths of parents that had never even existed. Dear Valar - had she become so invested in casting off [Name] that she was beginning to see her parents, their stories, their lives, like she would see real elves? Real parents? 

Thranduil did not speak for a moment, but when Lalaith raised her eyes to meet his gaze steadily again, she had a sinking intuition that he did not believe her. He did not call her out, however, though his reasons eluded her. He might have her thrown into the dungeons for her insolence in lying to him, but backing out now would make her look even more foolish. 

"You are of Noldorean blood," he said plainly. Confidently, as if he was completely certain that he was correct. Lalaith wondered if he had encountered many elves of the Noldor line. She responded, a little bit irritated at the way he spoke as if he was telling  _her_  that she was Noldorean rather than asking, with, "Truly, is that so, my lord? I did not know." As if he knew her better than she herself did! Lalaith knew she was being petty (and a bit rash), but at the moment she did not care. 

There was a hushed pause that seemed to creep over the surrounding elves at her biting reply. Something flashed in Thranduil's eyes and then was swallowed within their blue depths before she could gauge what it was. She could see the elf that had looked at her aggressively but had been flustered at her friendliness earlier in the forest staring at her with a horrified expression, as if she had just threatened to cut out the king's tongue instead of making a harmless, if irrational, jape. It was plain to see that he was not used to seeing sarcasm around his king. Legolas looked mildly surprised, though not shocked, like he hadn't been expecting her to be sarcastic. 

"Leave us, all of you, I would speak to my guest alone." Thranduil ordered imperiously. Lalaith could not help but marvel at the booming quality of his voice. It seemed effortless, as if his voice was powerful and potent enough to enrapture an entire arena full of people without him even having to raise it. She wondered if Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel, and Lord Celeborn could produce such tones when they wished to. 

The elves obediently, neatly, smoothly, began to file from the dais on which the throne rested, making their way down the steps and back down the walkway. Even the guards standing at the bottom of the stairs followed; clearly, she and the king would be left in absolute privacy. Lalaith looked away from Thranduil to watch them go with barely concealed apprehension. Why did Thranduil want to be alone with her? The other elves held her weapons; would she get them back?

Legolas was the last to descend the steps, and Lalaith did not miss the slightly concerned, slightly curious expression he cast towards his father. There were several meanings that glance could have had, and thousands of questions each meaning seemed to raise. Was he concerned for heror concerned for his father? If concerned for her, she couldn't think of any good way out of this situation. Would Thranduil imprison her - or worse? If concerned for his father, then -  _why?_  Thranduil was in a position of all the power between the two of them.

Hearing footsteps, Lalaith turned back to the king to see that he had stood silently and was now descending the steps down to the dais. By the Valar, he truly was tall, taller than even Lord Elrond. She herself was very short for an elf, and the king was tall, even for one. 

“It seems that an _orphan_ has wandered into my halls,” he stated, stressing the word ‘orphan’ in a way that confirmed it for Lalaith: he did not believe her story. Then again, she thought with slight bitterness, what had she expected? That she be able to fool the powerful elf-king with her lies?

But! Could he tell that she had used to be Nymíriel? That could not happen. It must not happen.

Thranduil’s feet landed on the floor of the platform so he was now on the same level as her. This Lalaith could tell by his footsteps, but her eyes almost refused to believe it. Did his boots have insoles that she had not seen? By Eru, he was even taller than she had originally thought him to be!

The king approached her. Lalaith had half a mind to step back with each step forward that he took, but she returned his piercing stare evenly and without flinching.

“What is your name?” Thranduil asked.

“Lalaith.”

Her answer seemed to amuse him, for he smiled, though not in a way that could be, in any fashion, considered kind. He smiled as if an experiment that he had been running had produced an unexpected result, and he was glad for it.

“Your real name.”

Her first instinct was to gasp. To stare at him with horror in her eyes, knowing that she was beaten and that he had seen through her front. She could feel Nymíriel place her delicate, pale hands on her shoulders, crooning in her ear that it was time for her to die and disappear.

 _“It is over,”_ Nymírielwhispered. _“Give up, Lalaith. You are through.”_

Her voice, coupled with Thranduil’s glower pinning her to her spot, pushed Lalaith almost to the precipice. Give up, [Name] was saying, and give up, Thranduil’s stare seemed to be saying. Why did she not? What prevented her?

Give up?

Give up and what? Return to Rivendell? Return to Lord Elrond, Lady Arwen, Lords Elladan and Elrohir? Face them in shame? Walk by the graves of the elflings that the Warg had slaughtered? Gaze at the wall where the tapestry of Lady Celebrian had hung, now shredded to pieces because of Nymíriel’s carelessness? Smile and laugh and spend her days among Nymíriel's family, to whom she was a scourge?

No.

No, she would not do it. If Nymíriel and Thranduil thought that she was about to give up when she had come this far, far enough to be free, far enough to relieve Lord Elrond of Nymíriel ’s burden, then they had better think again.

Lalaith drew her brows together and narrowed her eyes, searching the king’s face. She was the picture of confusion.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” she asked innocently. “Lalaith is my real name.”

She was certain, this time, that it was genuine surprise that flashed in the king’s eyes. She doubted it was a good thing or a positive kind of surprise. Thranduil was caught off guard – and not at all amused - at her audacity.

The king studied her much smaller form, his gaze burning with barely restrained anger. Lalaith could practically see the force of his disdain leveled at her, for who would dare to lie to a king’s face in such a brazen manner, in his own realm? Some instinct told her to drop to her knees and beg forgiveness, but she ignored it. How spineless and pathetic would such an act make her? She would not return to Rivendell, she would not return to Lord Elrond. If it meant she had to be thrown into the dungeons of Greenwood, she refused to acknowledge Nymíriel.

Then the fury in Thranduil’s eyes transformed into something softer, but no less dangerous. In fact, Lalaith thought, inhaling to keep herself calm, she might even say he looked deadlier now than before. The king seemed…amused, again.

“Is that so?” Thranduil asked. His voice was suddenly so different from the booming one that he had used when addressing her before. It slithered like a snake, soothing in a bizarre way, soothing and malicious.

Oh, he was angry, all right.

But Lalaith refused to be cowed. She had not come all this way for nothing. If Thranduil disliked her she would leave. If he threw her into the dungeons then, well…she couldn’t help but internally grimace at the prospect. Living her life in a cell felt like one of the worst ways to live.

Still, she could not – would not – admit her history with Nymíriel. She did not know King Thranduil. Even if she pleaded her case to him, she could not be sure if he would listen, and the risk was too great.

“Of course, my lord,” she responded smoothly.

The wrong response, if she was seeking to placate the king, but she was not. Although the ire that flashed in Thranduil’s blue eyes made her want to shiver, it was still a much better option than any of the alternatives. If she did not tell him that her real name was Nymíriel, he would be able to tell and would still be angry. If she outright admitted her real name, then – no. She did not have to think about it because it would never happen.

Thranduil might be able to detect her deception, but there was no way he could guess who she really was. Unless he was perhaps telepathic like Lady Galadriel, but she doubted it. He would have picked up on her former identity already.

“Guards!” Thranduil shouted. His all-carrying, all-encompassing voice was back, and Lalaith barely managed not to flinch in surprise. The fingers of her right hand twitched, but that was all.

She turned to see two guards clad in full armor walking briskly down the walkway towards the throne. Both of them had swords at their hips. She tensed, wondering if she had made the king angry enough for him to order his guards to lop off her head; although, she didn’t think so.

The guards walked up the stairs to the platform that the throne was on and came to a stop, standing rigid and disciplined, ready to obey their king’s commands.

“We have a guest chamber prepared at all times, do we not?” Thranduil inquired. Lalaith was certain it was not truly a question.

The guards dipped their heads once at the same time, giving their ‘yes’.

“Escort Lady Lalaith there. She is to be treated with the _utmost respect,”_ the king commanded, stressing the last two words.

Lalaith did not have to be particularly clever to realize his meaning. She was going to be confined to the room, or at least would not be allowed to go anywhere without supervision. Well, she thought, resigned, it was better than a cell.

Besides, perhaps Thranduil’s, at the least, civil treatment of her meant that he was not unwilling to accept her request to live in Mirkwood. Perhaps she could convince him in the future…somehow, anyway.

“We may speak again later, _Lady_ _Lalaith._ ” No doubt she was being dismissed.

Lalaith smiled evenly, curtsying again. “Yes, my lord.” She gazed up at the king, their eyes locked. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Then she turned away and, flanked by one guard on each side, took her leave of the king. She could feel his stare burning into the back of her head, but she kept her back straight and her head high and did not look back.

King Thranduil would not intimidate her into revealing her former identity.

Very different. Lalaith understood what that had meant now.

Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn had informed her that Thranduil was different from them, and Lalaith could now see so clearly what they had meant. Galadriel and Celeborn used their experience, their wisdom, their utter power, like a shield, protecting others, sometimes gently pushing them in the right direction. Thranduil used his experience, his wisdom, his utter power, like a weapon, daring others to step closer and risk their own safety. 

And Lalaith was quite sure that he knew she was a liar.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I do," Legolas' voice was, all in all, calm; no doubt he had indeed perceived his father's non-verbal warning. But he had already let his interest slip, and Lalaith had already begun her teasing - a form of petty revenge. Legolas' caution was smart. He had learned from his mistake, but it would not do him or his father any good now.

The guards escorted Lalaith through the winding halls of the Elvenking's dwelling. She couldn't help but marvel in her head as she gazed at parts of the palace that she had not before seen. Lord Elrond had always liked to keep his home simple. Elegant and refined, yes, but still simple. 

Thranduil clearly accepted no such limitations. His halls were as extravagant as could be, with decorations, such as beautifully sculpted lamps and scenes of the forest carved into the walls. There seemed to be trees and stone protruding simultaneously from the walls, tangled with vines. It seemed that he had made it his goal to make visitors' jaws drop with every new hallway that they turned into. 

She truly would have gaped further at the magnificence, but Lalaith was on high alert. King Thranduil was treating her as a guest; a guest that needed to be watched, yes, but a guest nonetheless. The issue was that she had no idea how long his hospitality would last. Perhaps he was faking it all, and even if he wasn't, he clearly was none too fond of her (not that she could blame him for it). She had to keep her guard up, and she could not afford to be too distracted by the splendor of Thranduil's dwelling. 

"Lady Lalaith, this is the guest chamber prepared for you," the guard to her left spoke. "We have no outfits as of this moment, but we will bring some soon, I assure you. And everything you were carrying during your journey, save for your weapons and your horse, will be returned." His voice was hard and his face was stone-cold, disciplined and militaristic. It was not merely him, either; all of the guards she had passed were stoic and expressionless. Lalaith could not help but feel impressed at their self-control. It all seemed terribly tedious to her; she knew she could never stand to endure it. 

She nodded to the guard who had spoken and turned her gaze towards the door in front of her. It was a light shade of gray, like limestone, and had a scene etched into it. Conducting a brief inspection, it dawned on Lalaith that the door illustrated the famous meeting of Elu Thingol, a Sindarin elvenking, and Melian the Maia, his wife. It had been between them that the half-elven Luthien that was Lord Elrond's great-grandmother had been born, she remembered. 

The guards, including the one who had been kind enough to inform her of her destination, had spread into a neat formation about both sides of the door. Lalaith surmised that they would be the ones guarding her. 

Well, it did not matter. She stepped forward, opened the door carefully, and stepped in, making sure to close the door behind her with a light thud. A little shiver went up her spine as she heard it being locked, but she had expected this. 

Taking in her surroundings, Lalaith was far from displeased. The room was large, luxurious, and comfortable. The floor, though still cold stone, was covered with a red velvet rug. A large bed carved of smooth brown teakwood sat nestled in the far corner, the four posts in its corners rising to meet a canopy. From the canopy hung curtains of violet silk that fell gracefully and concealed the mattress and pillows of the bed. In the corner across from the bed was a shelf, filled with all manner of books. Lalaith's eyes brightened at the sight. At least she would not be bored...

There was a teakwood desk parallel to but opposite from the bed. In front of the desk was a large armchair, with a purple dress draped over its back. 

The hospitality of King Thranduil was rather satisfying, Lalaith noted. But he was still angry at her, and she doubted it would keep her safe. She knew it had been unwise to lie to him, but she was not about to mention Nymíriel around him. Never. 

With a sigh as she thought about what an ultimatum she was in, Lalaith decided it would do her good to at least change out of her dirties traveling clothes. She walked over to the chair at the desk and examined the purple [outfit](http://en.mhnew.com/news/photo/201801/1504_3000_4325.gif). The skirt reached just past her knees and was made of sheer material, but the pair of black leggings that had been placed underneath the dress would prevent that from becoming a problem. Next to the dress, as well, was a purple belt. The sleeves were long.

Stripping off her traveling clothes, Lalaith pulled on the leggings, slipped into her new outfit, and buckled the belt around her waist. It was comfortable; the top fit her loosely and the slits in the skirt of the dress allowed her maximum leg movement. Somehow it fit her well.

Sitting on the bed, Lalaith dragged her slender fingers through her black locks, gently pulling apart any knots she found. Knots could become very troublesome if left alone for too long. 

The sound of footsteps invaded Lalaith's hearing, becoming increasingly louder by the second. Eventually, the stopped in front of her door, and there was a knock. 

"Come in," Lalaith called, wondering who it could be.

The sound of the door being unlocked was heard before it opened, and a guard that had been outside the room stepped inside, carrying a large trunk carved with dark wood. He placed it down in the corner. "These are your outfits, my lady," he informed her.

 _My lady._ Lalaith grimaced. The title of nobility brought back memories of Nymíriel, Lord Elrond, Lords Elladan and Elrohir, and Lady Arwen. And Lady Celebrian. It was unpleasant.

Noticing her displeasure, the guard asked, "Is anything the matter, Lady Lalaith?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," she replied, flashing him a smile, pleased that he had caught on. "Please do not call 'Lady', and if you would be so kind, please tell the other guards as well. I am not a lady and the title does not become of me."

"Then what must we call you?"

Lalaith would have thought the answer was obvious. But then again, their king had ordered the guards to treat her with respect. The guard in front of her was likely being cautious as to not displease her. "Just by my name," she told him. "Lalaith."

To his credit, the guard showed no hesitation. "Is there anything else you would like, Lalaith?" he inquired professionally.

Lalaith shook her head, her sensitive ears picking up the sound of her raven locks swishing back and forth against each other. Seeing her answer, the guard left, closing the door behind him. A second later Lalaith could hear the clicks of the lock. 

She sat and stared ahead, collecting her thoughts. King Thranduil was suspicious; he knew she had lied directly to him, but he could not know that she was once Nymíriel. Lalaith suspected he would try to pry her true identity from her - who wouldn't, after how suspicious she had acted? But she would not let him discover anything. 

But what if Lord Elrond came to Greenwood to search? If she was essentially imprisoned here, she would be able to do nothing about it. And if the Lord of Rivendell told King Thranduil that his daughter had gone missing not so long ago, where would Thranduil's suspicions go to but towards the she-elf with Noldorean features who refused to tell him of her past? The answer would be too obvious - and then they were doomed. 

Then again, she thought, Lord Elrond had no way of knowing that she was aware Lord Elladan and Lord Elrohir had departed from Greenwood. It had been Lady Galadriel who had informed her as much, but as far as Lord Elrond was concerned, Nymíriel had not gone to Lothlorien after her disappearance. He would think that still believed her brothers were in Greenwood; therefore, he must believe she would avoid it all costs. 

It provided some defense, but Lalaith knew that it was not a perfect solution. Lord Elrond might not think of Greenwood at the moment because of what she had just considered, but it was still a possibility that Nymíriel might have learned from some source that her brothers were no longer in Greenwood; then, the lord of Rivendell might return, and if Lalaith was still here, it would not do. 

She must do something, but what? She did not even know King Thranduil's plans for her. In this situation where she knew so little, it was not easy to take action in her favor if she did not know _what_ was good for her.

Yet it would not do Lalaith any good to agonize over her situation, so she stood and made her way over to the shelf at the other side of the room. Rifling through several books, she selected one that gave of a synopsis about a young girl, a princess, taken at a young age to marry a powerful king. 

**~**

_'Drunk and strong-armed by his so-called servants, what could Cedric have done? He was young, pressured, and thoroughly under the influence of the alcohol. And he had never quite learned to think for himself._

_And so, I was in my chambers, laughing with my handmaidens, when a knock on the door announced Cedric's head eunuch. I received him warmly, for Daniel was dear to me, and I to him._

_"Welcome, my friend," I greeted him with a smile. But my cheeriness at seeing him faded quickly upon seeing the grave expression on his face. He looked pale. Ill. I frowned._

_"What is the matter?"_

_He would not meet my eyes._

_"Daniel?" I questioned gently. "Speak. What is it?"_

_"O queen, eternally bless us." He greeted me with the reverent phrase traditionally used to greet royalty in my husband's kingdom. He had never done so since we had become close; and his voice was faint and wan. "His Majesty...King Cedric, has commanded...He has decreed that his lady wife, his love, shall come into the banquet hall before him."_

_My eyes narrowed. The banquet hall - seldom was a woman allowed in the banquet hall, but I was queen, and exceptions were expected. That could not be all._

_"And?" I prompted, trying to ignore the sinking feeling of dread spreading from my stomach to the rest of my body._

_"And." Daniel seemed to be forcing his words out, as if there was something that he could not dislodge down his throat. "And he has commanded that you shall wear your crown...and only your crown."_

_My handmaidens stiffened beside me as I felt the blood drain from my face. I felt lightheaded, too shocked to be shocked, so appalled that I felt numb._

_Naked. Into a hall full of men?_

_"Why?" I whispered._

_"So his servants may gaze upon the unmatched beauty if his queen." Daniel sounded as if he was on the verge of tears._

_So that was it. I was not blind. I saw the political conniving occurring behind Daniel's back. I had many enemies, lords who wished to drag me down and raise their daughters up in my place. I was a foreigner, chosen only for my beauty and my obedience, when I was merely a child. If I disobeyed my husband, my king's command..._

_Lawfully, it was treason. I could very well be executed._

_Twelve years had passed since I had come here. I was nineteen years old now, no longer the child that Daniel's mother had chosen to wed her son._

_I had not changed much since then. I was still a foolish, insipid, airheaded girl. I was still not a queen, not truly. I still had no power, no control. But this - this I would not stand for._

_My head may be full of clouds. My mind may not be sharp. My only asset may be my beauty. But I was not a harlot. I would not parade myself for lustful eyes like a common courtesan, a glorified whore. No, I would not demean myself._

_"Tell my king and husband Cedric," I said to Daniel, and my voice was steady. Strong. Sure. More so than I think I had ever sounded. "That I say no."_

A knock interrupted Lalaithas she ravenously drank in the book's text. She would have heard footsteps, but she had been too engrossed in the tale. Raising her head, she called, "Come in."

She heard the signature unlocking, and then the guard from before, who had delivered her untouched trunk, stepped inside.

"It is time for supper, Lalaith."

Lalaith furrowed her slender brows. Did the entire kingdom have supper at the same time? It seemed to be an unnecessarily gigantic undertaking. If not, then what else could the guard mean? Was she going to...dine with the royal family? The thought made her stomach curl with trepidation. Was King Thranduil trying to coax her into a false sense of comfort? Was he trying to show her kindness so she would open her heart to him? Or did he have some darker intention with this meal? 

Was, she, perhaps, judging him too much? Could it be that all he wanted was to show her courtesy? 

Or...was he mocking her? Had he discovered her relationship with Nymíriel and treating her like a noble lady to make her uncomfortable? She almost wanted to refuse, but if she did, it would be suspicious...

"I see," she told the guard. "Where is the food?" A foolish hope...

"You will not be eating in here," he told her, confirming her suspicions. "You will be eating with King Thranduil and his son."

 _Legolas as well?_ Lalaith thought. Well, she should not be surprised. Any father would want to spend at least one meal with his son, she supposed. But why, she thought again, why invite her to this as well?

"Why?" she asked the guard.

"I do not know," he responded, much to her concealed frustration. Nevertheless, she could do nothing else but stand from the bed, slip into her boots, and follow him out the door, where two other guards waited. They fell into step behind her, to make sure she did not slip off, Lalaith realized. Well, no matter. She had never intended to try.

She was escorted through another series of winding halls filled with breathtaking sights. To Lalaith's satisfaction, she even found that she recognized a few. Good. There could be no harm in familiarizing herself with the wood-elves' dwelling, if her situation ever became...desperate. 

The guards led Lalaith to the front of a grand pair of double doors, more carvings engraved into the wood. Lalaith recognized more scenes: Luthien singing of her sorrow before the eyes of Mandos, the union of Varda and Manwë, the wedding of Finarfin and Eärwen, and that of Galadriel and Celeborn. Inside the doors, Lalaith could hear the sound of running water. A waterfall, perhaps?

Two more guards stood stone-still in front of the doors, but as Lalaith approached they opened them. The doors parted with great, low groaning signs, telling Lalaith how ancient they were. Inside was a gigantic hall. Stone columns held up the arched ceiling, and in each corner, there were, indeed, miniature waterfalls. 

A grand chandelier made of wood was fastened to the roof, Lalaith saw as she began to walk in. She wondered if it was precarious. Wood was flammable, but she brushed off the thought. Surely King Thranduil was not so careless. Perhaps there was a spell on the wood. Or the flames of the candles.

In the middle of the hall was a grand table, carved from wood and reinforced with stone. At its head, facing the double doors, sat King Thranduil in all his splendor. To the elvenking's right side, perpendicular to his father, was Legolas. 

Thranduil wore the same robes that Lalaith had seen him in when he had been on his throne, although his collar was now folded to allow his neck more movement to dine. Legolas, however, was clad in a rich green tunic of soft, comfortable material. Since his legs were under the table, she knew not what he wore on his lower limbs or his feet, but she doubted it was anything like the patrol gear that she had first seen him in. His hair, sprawled about his shoulders when she had first seen him, was drawn into a hasty braid. 

"Lady Lalaith," Thranduil spoke; his voice boomed, though perhaps not as resoundingly as it had when she had faced him before his throne. "Come," the king told her courteously, "sit." The chair to his left, the one across the table from Legolas, had even been pulled out. The message was quite obvious: sit there.

Wary but knowing the pointlessness of refusing, Lalaith stalked to the chair and settled into it. She kept her head held high, however; if she gave signs of uncertainty, the king would certainly detect them. In fact, he likely saw through her facade already. 

Not breaking the silence - perhaps in a bid to make her feel increasingly uncomfortable - Thranduil, with impossible grace, picked up his fork, speared it into a cherry tomato, brought the fork to his mouth, and ate the vegetable. Lalaith tried not to flinch. There was something oddly deliberate about his movements. 

She instead fixed her gaze on Legolas, who, upon seeing his father eat, selected his own first bite - the leaves of an assorted salad. Lalaith would rather not have eaten - her stomach was insistent on reminding her of the tension-rife situation - but she wanted to avoid offending the king in any way. He already did not like her, and with good reason. So she picked up her own fork, sunk it into a dried apricot, and ate. 

She reminded herself to keep the dignity and elegance out of her eating, but it seemed that she, unpracticed, had not concealed it well enough. 

"What is this?" Thranduil spoke. "You do not eat like a common elf,  _Lady_ Lalaith."

Red flashed behind Lalaith's eyes and her stomach seemed to have taken in a bowlful of solid rocks, but she kept her cool. She had expected something like this, after all; it hardly caught her off guard, though adrenaline rushed through her veins. 

"My mother never did relinquish her habit of eating like a noblewoman," she fired back evenly, refusing to be cowed, even as Thranduil pinned her under his intense stare. "I picked up her habit, my lord."

"I see," was the king's only response before the pressure in his eyes was gone and he was back to enjoying his meal peacefully. Lalaith already felt exhausted. She was not sure she could keep up her mind-sparring with Thranduil for the entirety of the meal. Trying to calm down, she fixed her gaze on Legolas, who looked mildly confused. Clearly he could tell there was something between her and his father, but was unable to discern what it was exactly.

"King Thranduil," Lalaith spoke, deciding to make her move first this time. But she had no intention of poking at the king as he had poked at her; she was simply curious about something. "My weapons and my horse. Where are they?" She knew her inquiry would invite suspicion, but she could deflect it easily enough.

"Why do you ask?" The king's tone was amused, as if he was speaking to a defiant kitten. Lalaith supposed that being alive for thousands of years could affect one's perception of others.

"My parents gave me the weapons, and I have known Swiftwind since he was a colt," she replied. "I treasure them, and him."

"Worry not," Thranduil drawled, still with an air of impossible majesty. "They are secure and will not be touched, and your mount is well-fed. When I know you are trustworthy I shall return him, as well as your weapons, to you." 

It was plain to Lalaith that she would not be earning that trust anytime soon; at least, that was what she initially thought. But looking at Thranduil now, there was a relaxed ease in the king's posture that Lalaith would not associate with a man in the presence of someone he did not trust. Simple arrogance? Was he confident that she would not act upon any harmful intentions that she had? Ancient and long-lived was the king, but it was often wisdom that was spoken of in correlation with such age, not arrogance. Like Lady Galadriel. Lord Celeborn. Lord Elrond.

Then again, perhaps not always, she reflected, studying Thranduil as he ate gracefully. Loss was handled differently, and all could not be as magnanimous and accepting as the Lady of Light or the Lord of Imladris. Or perhaps, she thought, she was judging too harshly, thinking too much, again.

Suddenly the king met her gaze, and it was only then that Lalaith realized she had been staring. Cursing her foolishness, she was about to look away, but something stopped her.

What was it?

She could not say. Pride? An odd sense of self-preservation? Defiance, even? Whatever the case, she held the king's gaze.

 _"Adar,"_ Legolas spoke up, and Thranduil broke their stare, amusement glinting in his eyes. Once again, the suspicion that the king saw her resistance as that of a small kitten crept over Lalaith. It made her feel indignant, though it was not hard to see why Thranduil would think of her as such...

 _"Onya,"_ was Thranduil's reply, "What troubles you?"

Lalaith was surprised.  _Onya_ \- my child. It was odd to hear the king, arrogant in demeanor, not a thing about him soft, referring to his son in such an affectionate manner. Legolas  _was_ Thranduil's child, of course; but to hear the elvenking speak of him as that...it was a surprising act of warmth from Thranduil, in Lalaith's opinion.

Then again, Legolas, the receiver of the act, looked not at all surprised, so she supposed it was not uncommon. 

"Who exactly is Lady Lalaith?" the Prince of Greenwood asked his father, all the innocence in the world decorating his voice. He sounded quite...like a child in that moment. Young, younger than she'd ever been.

Lalaith blinked.  _Young?_ Legolas was around her age. They were indeed young for elves, but for her to refer to him as young... She thought of the maids and serving boys, dead and injured, of Lord Elrond's angered words, her frantic galloping away from Imladris - or had that been Nymíriel still? - the Lady Galadriel, the Lord Celeborn, Haldir and his pain, King Thranduil and his late wife, Legolas, left without a mother, and felt bizarrely, truly old. 

 _I am only fifty winters old,_ she told herself in irritation.  _By the Valar, if I already feel ancient, what am I to do during my thousandth birthday?_

"Why do you ask?" Again. Thranduil's voice held a rich, gentle undertone that Lalaith detected only when he spoke to his son. A father's love, she thought, ignoring the pang in her heart and the faces that flitted through her mind. One was a Noldorean lord of regal bearing, dark-haired, tired ocean blue eyes, a circlet upon his brow.  _The lord of Imladris._ And the other...the other was the blurrest outline of a person, the barest silhouette of a male elf, seemingly smiling at her. She could scarcely see his face but she somehow knew that he wore a loving smile.

Who?

_What do I mean, who? He is my father, he's the Silvan elf that fled with my mother. He is dead. His name is - his name is Îrion, and he is your father. Father of Lalaith._

Lalaith jerked, almost imperceptibly. She had not realized that she had no longer been paying attention to Thranduil or his son; as a result, she had missed part of their conversation and heard only, "...aith is our honored guest."

 _So honored a guest that I am imprisoned in your halls,_ she thought, but said nothing. She was outnumbered here, and she did not fault the king for imprisoning her. 

"She had a bow. And arrows." Legolas' voice was filled with transparent wistfulness. It sounded as if he was thinking of something that he had longed to have for a long time. Perhaps...did he have an interest in archery? Why, then, would his father not indulge him? There was nothing harmful that could come of learning a combat skill...

"Yes." There was a hint of warning in Thranduil's tone; caution, if you will, Lalaith thought. A warning. A protective warning, not a threatening one. A vulnerability? Had Legolas just revealed in a chink in his facade? _Did_ he have a facade like his father so clearly did?

 _Ah, you think too much, child,_ a warm voice echoed in her head. Lord Elrond's face flickered through her mind's eye. He was smiling, and she thought she could feel the sensation of a gentle hand stroking the crown of her head, tender and loving. 

_Father..._

_I cannot._ Lalaith forced the image, the caresses, from her mind. Father?  _Father._ She had no father anymore. Her father was dead - Îrion -  _Îrion? -_ was dead. In the Halls of Mandos, and so was her mother. She shook the wayward notions from her head.

Legolas must have taken the warning in his father's voice, because he fell silent, but the silence was not serene or peaceful, but subdued and sullen. Lalaith studied him. Was this defiance she felt that she saw in him? Dissatisfaction? 

Suddenly, she was overwhelmed with the pressure of a predatory gaze burning icy holes into the side of her head. Lalaith did not have to look in the direction of the stare to know who it was. Thranduil had noticed the way she dissected his son, and he - for good reason - did not like it. No parent would. 

Nevertheless. Lalaith had picked up on something, and she was tired of the stress and worry that the king had caused her, as justified as it might be. A petty, childish thought tickled at her, and she did not hesitate to act upon it. 

"Prince Legolas," she spoke directly to the prince, her tone friendly and warm, eyes bright and inquisitive. "Do you like archery?"

"I do," Legolas' voice was, all in all, calm; no doubt he had indeed perceived his father's non-verbal warning. But he had already let his interest slip, and Lalaith had already begun her teasing - a form of petty revenge. Legolas' caution was smart. He had learned from his mistake, but it would not do him or his father any good now. 

"I do as well," she sighed, stroking a line down the surface of the table as if stroking a bow. "Unfortunately, I have not in my lifetime been provided with others to share my enjoyment of the experience with. Perhaps you will be the one to understand. The straightening of the elbow when nocking and aiming, the tightening of muscles as the bowstring is pulled back, the twang of the bowstring when the arrow is loosed, and the exhilaration that comes with watching your arrow fly." She smiled at him. "You know of what I speak, do you not?"

Legolas hesitated. "Yes," he said, but the uncertainty in his voice was not undetectable, although he did a good job of hiding it. Lalaith felt a flicker of contrition for using the prince's inexperience to satisfy her childish grudge against his father. But it was all harmless fun, she reminded herself, as she smiled at the king next. He appeared so stone-cold that she was unsure of whether her subtle taunting affected him. 

Still, she continued, playful and, more surprisingly, enjoying herself. "I think Prince Legolas would have a talent for archery," she commented. "Do you?" She glanced again at Legolas, who was not looking at her, before facing Thranduil again, his eyes on her face, hers on his. He looked unmoved.

"He does not practice archery."

Thranduil's voice was calm and emotionless, showing no sign of being even the slightest bit ruffled by Lalaith's attempted goading. _Well,_ she thought, slightly sour,  _a young girl like me should rightfully be unable to disturb an elf-king of King Thranduil's caliber._ Still, she felt strangely gleeful. The pleasure she had garnered from teasing - or attempting to tease - Thranduil could not be ignored. Lalaith realized that, after her jesting, she was in better spirits. 

"Oh," she replied, feigning utter disappointment and letting her gaze sink to the table sadly, despite having already been aware of that. "That is unfortunate. Please forgive my senseless babbling, Prince Legolas."

At this point, it seemed that Legolas had caught onto some sort of conniving occurring in her mind, for his eyes were suspicious. He was not used to being suspicious, Lalaith realized; she could tell simply from the fact that he did a very poor job of disguising this suspicion. 

A sheltered life, perhaps? Did his father coddle him?

Nymíriel's father would have liked to coddle her, Lalaith thought, but Nymíriel had always refused to have any of it. From her brief escapades into the surrounding countryside and forests to her long travels several hundred miles away from Imladris, Nymíriel had ever refused Lord Elrond the opportunity to shelter her. Wisdom Nymíriel had not gained during these travels, but it seemed that she had honed her craftiness and perception.

Honed craftiness and perception that had been passed to her. To Lalaith. Perhaps that was why she had suddenly felt so old. If her assumption was correct and Legolas did indeed live a sheltered life, seeing an elf of similar age yet such contrasting mentality...

Her good spirit deflated quickly, Lalaith resisted the compulsion to sigh and continued to eat. She did not speak for the rest of the meal. Neither did Legolas, and he also seemed to be making an effort not to look at her. The same, however, could not be said for his father, who, Lalaith felt, never took his eyes off of her the entire time the three of them dined. She felt the force of his displeasure as clearly as she felt an oncoming storm. 

After the silent rest of the meal, Lalaith was escorted back to her chambers. She was tired, very tired, she realized, when the doors of her confines closed and locked behind her. Lalaith had not entered meditative state since Nymíriel had fled Imladris, too wary of potentially being caught to let her guard down to such an extent. _I am paying the price now_ , she thought, exhausted, as fatigue crept over her.

Sleep was several times more replenishing than the meditative state, so Lalaith opted to do so. She could not very well sleep in her current clothes that she had eaten supper in, however, so she knelt by the trunk that had been delivered to her hours ago. She was fairly confident that a nightgown would be in there somewhere; after all, Thranduil was most certainly not so absentminded as to forget to have clothes for sleeping in for his guest.

Unless he intended to make her uncomfortable by sleeping in clothes that were not meant to be slept in. But the brief worry was swiftly dissipated when she found what she was searching for - in fact, several of them.  _What remarkable courtesy on King Thranduil's part._

The nightgowns all looked comfortable, Lalaith noted with satisfaction. [One ](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB1IS_JoYwrBKNjSZPcq6xpapXag/Vintage-Sexy-Sleepwear-Women-Cotton-Medieval-Nightgown-White-Deep-V-Neck-Backless-Princess-Night-Dress-Plus.jpg_640x640.jpg)of them was white, with lacy decorations about the breasts, a low neckline to avoid irritation about her collarbones and throat, long, loose sleeves, and a loose skirt flaring down just past, Lalaith estimated, her knees. [Another ](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51svHsgMZdL._UX385_.jpg)was a soft pink shade, sleeves and skirt loose as well, but the skirt was longer, reaching down to around Lalaith's ankles. There was far less decoration around the chest for this one, but its neckline was still low for comfort. The [third](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB1hL9FQpXXXXcCXVXXq6xXFXXXK/Free-Shipping-Princess-Style-Women-s-Blue-and-White-Nightgown-Long-Sleepwear-Vintage-Pijamas-roupao-feminino.jpg) and last was pale blue. Its sleeves were, like the other two, loose, but they had white lace at the ends. This one did not have a low neckline, and in fact came together around the neck area in a neatly tied, blue silk ribbon. The waist was loosely pinched together but was not restrictive, and the skirt reached down to the ankles, as well. 

 _I like this one best,_ Lalaith decided, folding and placing the first two back into the trunk. But when she slipped into it and tied the ribbon, she found that she did not like that it was tighter about her neck. Knowing the discomfort would disturb her sleep, Lalaith untied the ribbon and let it droop freely over her chest. The move also freed her collarbone and throat.  _Better,_ she thought, satisfied.

The brief activity had fought off her weariness, but she then felt it trickling back in. Walking to the bed, Lalaith lay down. It was comfortable. Very much so. 

Halfway to surrendering to sleep, Lalaith felt that there was a gentle hand stroking her hair. She did not feel threatened. In fact, the hand only made her eyelids feel heavier. A deep, tender, achingly familiar, and almost melancholy voice accompanied the caresses, and her body completely relaxed as she allowed her mind to drift along with the speaker.

_"Elros and I were taught much by Maedhros and Maglor, Nymíriel. Maedhros taught us the sword. He had lost one hand many, many years ago, but it mattered not to him in battle, for his skill with his left hand was even greater than it had been with his lost right hand. He was a ferocious fighter, speed and strength overwhelming, yet he was also cunning. Hot-tempered at times, and rash, but cunning when he willed it. It was my dream - and Elros' - to surpass his skills one day. Alas, my daughter, I cannot say I have managed to do so, even today, for his prowess was great...and I may never know now._

_"Elros and I desired strongly to learn the sword, to perfect our abilities, and yet Maglor taught us much as well. Maglor was less inclined than Maedhros to wield arms, for he loved to sing and he loved the arts. His voice was all the beauty of the Undying Lands. We learned music from him, and though we did not have his talent with the voice or with the harp, we loved to do so. Maglor was ever more tender than Maedhros...it is said that he was the kindest out of the sons of Fëanor, though..._

Lord Elrond's voice went on, but Lalaith could not understand his words anymore. She was claimed by the depths of sleep, and her father's voice faded to dull, but soothing, droning. It was not long before she could hear nothing at all.

**~**

_"I am going, Father," Nymíriel said._

_"Nymíriel." Her father's tone was authoritative and bordering on anger. He had always been patient, but this issue had been dividing them for too long and she had brought it up one too many times. He was losing his cool, but Nymíriel was not cowed. She was going. Regardless of if she angered her father or not, she would not be dissuaded._

_"How many times must I tell you?" Elrond said. "You cannot go, especially not alone."_

_"Father!" Nymíriel hissed, clenching her hand around Crowfeather's reins. "Father, the war is over! Sauron is vanquished! It has been so for centuries!"_

_"That does not change my concern," he replied. "You must understand, Nymíriel. I have seen far too much to put your safety in the hands of chance."_

_Nymíriel threw up her hands in exasperation. "Father, it does not matter," she insisted. "What you have seen has no bearing on Middle-Earth as it is today. Do not stifle me because you cannot forget things that happened centuries ago! It is not as if I am planning to ride into the ruins of Angband. I simply want to go and see the Weather Hills!" She glared at her father. Why, why was it so difficult for him to understand? She misliked being confined to Imladris and the surrounding few miles. She wanted to see the world, the earth, that she was born into! Why could her father not see that?_

_Elrond's face had gone stone-cold, as he was wont to do when he was truly angered. Nymíriel seethed. Why was **he** angry? It was her that was being held back! _

_"You may not go." His voice brooked no room for argument._

_But Nymíriel refused to give up. She had come too far. She had gathered her weapons, packed food and water, and mounted Crowfeather, for Valar's sake! She had made it to the border of Imladris before her father had intercepted her. If she relinquished herself to her father's stubbornness now, she would never forgive herself. She could not lose this opportunity!_

_"I am going," she snapped. "I am your daughter and not your servant, Father, and I am old enough and skilled enough with weapons that I will go where I wish!" She saw the surprise flash across Elrond's face - she had never spoken to him so defiantly before - but she ignored it and spurred Crowfeather into a gallop. He raced away, the distance between Nymíriel and her father widening enormously in mere seconds. Her hair whipping in the wind, Nymíriel glanced back to see if her father was giving pursuit, but he was not._

_She could not clearly make out his face, for her ebony locks were slapping dangerously close to her eyes and Crowfeather's forceful gait rocked her line of vision, but she could have sworn Elrond looked tired and pained._

_But then she turned to focus on steering her mount, and looked back no more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the book I had Lalaith read was basically the story of Vashti and Ahasuerus from the Bible. 
> 
> As for Elrond's narration, for those who don't know, Elrond had a brother named Elros. They were the sons of Eärendil the Mariner and Elwing, but Maedhros and Maglor, the two oldest sons of Fëanor, the greatest of the Noldor and creator of the three Silmarils (also Galadriel's uncle through his younger half-brother Finarfin, for those who've only watched the movies), raised them after their parents abandoned them. I would like to get into why their parents did such a thing to their sons, but that would be a long and complicated story.
> 
> Being half-Elven, Elrond and Elros were eventually subject to choose between the Fate of Men (mortality, to travel beyond Arda after death) and the Fate of Elves (immortality, to remain bound to Arda for all time). Elrond chose the Fate of Elves while Elros chose the Fate of Men. Aragorn can actually be traced to Elros' line, meaning Arwen and Aragorn were very distantly related.
> 
> Also, that "I am your daughter and not your servant was a brief nod to something. Can you guess? ;)


	10. Chapter 10

The shadow was in the darkness.

He lived in the crevices and ravines among unknown, unspoken places. Disgrace. Servant. Friend. Lover. Vassal. Advisor. Traitor. Shame. Failure. Lord. Prisoner. Murderer. Disgrace. He could not be seen, could not be detected. He could not allow himself to be. 

Without only half an existence, the shadow clung on. Remnants of his power swirled around him, but he snarled as he was reminded, again, that it was but a small fraction of the power, the magnificence, that he had possessed. He, who was  _his_ successor!  _He_ would be ashamed. 

Not that  _he_ could say he had fared much better, though the words would have earned him a backhand. Or perhaps his eyes would have been gouged at instead; the height of inconvenience.

 _It will not be like this forever,_ the shadow assured himself. Yes. It would not. He would suffer in silence for now. He would fester and thrive and grow in this darkness until the time was ripe. 

But the dark was not peaceful. Anger and hate ripped through him constantly, searing him from the inside out. Hate them. Kill them. Him. Plunder. Torture. Reject...torment. Hatred. Loathing. Fury. Why - why? It could almost be described as a rush of adrenaline magnified times a thousand, and intertwined with a roiling mass of emotions that he had not the energy to name. 

Painful.

 _Peace,_ he thought.  _Peace, peace is for them, not for me. Peace is something to be avoided, peace is something to be spat on, because if I have peace, I have no cause to struggle. No cause to continue. I will accomplish what I intended. I will see my world realized. Peace will hinder me. Peace is useless. Peace is weak._

He would have been laughed at if he said such things with - with...

A face darted through his mind, a smiling face. All whispery chuckles and lilting tones. Serenity washed over him like a cooling wave, but he was too swept away to realize it. 

_"Perhaps you need to have some fun."_

_Fun._ Had the gravity of those words even been recognized?  _Fun? It was impossible. What was suggested was impossible._ Was it known when it was spoken? Had he been mocked? It would not be uncharacteristic, or would it indeed? 

But. It did not matter. He had work to do. Nothingness to battle. Seeds to be sowed, and it would not be him that reaped them.

Peace is useless. Peace is weak. Peace is to be spat on.

_Peace will hinder me._

**~**

_"Adar_ , I must request something of you." 

It was following the supper with their new guest that Legolas spoke to his father in his private chambers, so familiar to him. He used to visit the king's bedchambers every day, to spend time in seclusion with his father and his mother. The prince felt a pang at the thought of the deceased queen, his mother, whose face he could barely remember. He could not quite manage to push it away.

"It is not often that you make a request to me, Legolas. Speak, my son. What is it that you desire?" His father's voice was calm and filled with quiet authority. There was no hint of coddling when the king of Greenwood spoke, even to his own son. King Thranduil had never been one to be swayed by emotion when it came to serious matters. Legolas knew he would not be earning what he wished easily, if at all. 

The Sindar prince hesitated. Would his father think him foolish? "Our guest - Lady Lalaith."

His father's eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly, and something told Legolas that Thranduil already knew what his request would be. But the king his father did not interrupt him as he continued, "She had a bow and arrows. She practiced archery." He could not quite hide the longing in his voice as he uttered the last word. 

"Indeed,  _ion-nin_ ," replied his father. "Your observations do me proud."

Legolas knew his father well enough to recognize the dry sarcasm beneath the king's indifferent tone. He pouted childishly, sticking out his lower lip. Untempered amusement glinted in Thranduil's icy blue eyes, and a hint of a smile might have risen on his fair lips as he bade his son to continue. 

Legolas hesitated again. At this point, no doubt his father was aware of what his request was, yet he was having him express it explicitly anyway. It could mean two things, the prince supposed: either that his father was not completely against the idea or that he planned to be certain of what his son wanted before firmly squashing the notion. He could not decide which. With Thranduil, anything was possible. 

Well. No point in holding anything back, was there? Thranduil already knew his heart, else, his father would want him to speak truly.

"I wish to learn. Father, you refuse to allow me to practice archery. You know that this has long fascinated me, and yet you will not teach me yourself and claim that no one else has the skill worthy. I do not understand it and have long since ceased trying, but please, Father. Is Lady Lalaith skilled enough to teach me? May I, at the least, have a chance?"

His father was studying him with calculated yet affectionate calm as the prince allowed his sentiments to burst forth unheeded. When Legolas finished, he felt slightly abashed for revealing the depth of his desperation to learn archery to his father. Yet he could not regret his decision. He felt unburdened, at least for the moment; however, if Thranduil refused despite his pleading, his longing would only grow...

The king closed his eyes in consideration. Legolas blinked. How did a being appear so majestic and powerful and yet so weary and jaded at the same time? Even he did not know the extent of his father's emotions, the burden of his father's experiences. Even he, Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of Greenwood the Great, could not truly comprehend the depths of Thranduil, the Elvenking of Greenwood the Great, son of Oropher. 

But at this moment, he thought he might be as close as he ever had been to understanding.

Then Thranduil opened his eyes. They were indifferent and, although not devoid of warmth as they gazed at the prince, Legolas could not find that same overwhelming, scorching love of a father as he had seen in the king's eyes before  _Naneth's_ death. 

He might have shuddered, but he resisted the tremble. 

"Very well, Legolas." The prince nearly missed his father's next words amidst his own musings. But he heard it despite, and when he did, he looked up, hopeful and pleasantly surprised. Thranduil held up his hand, however, halting Legolas' overflow of glee.

"I shall test her skill. And if she is not sufficient, you will have to wait to start your archery. If she is..." the king smiled coolly. "If she is, then celebrate, my son, for you shall have her as your teacher."

A smile split Legolas' face and he made no attempt to stop it. Yes, it was not a complete reassurance, but it was far,  _far_ better than the nothing that he had feared might be the answer. "Thank you,  _Adar!_ _"_ he cried, not bothering to conceal his ecstasy at his father's permission.

"You are welcome, _ion-nin_. But do not hope for too much too soon. If her skill is subpar, she shall not be allowed to teach you." 

Legolas' hurried steps were filled with glee as he ran back to his own chambers, a smile splitting his face. This was, he realized, the closest that he had ever come to being granted permission to learn archery from his father. He fervently prayed to the Valar to allow Lady Lalaith's skills to satisfy his father's expectations. He could  _not_ lose this opportunity, not when it was all but brushing against his fingers!

His thoughts drifted to his potential tutor, Lady Lalaith. When first seeing her, he had been awestruck at her beauty, thinking Luthien from his bedtime tales had come alive from the dead. For any elf, even one as young and inexperienced with women as Legolas, could not deny that his father's guest was a sublime, exotic creature; ice blue eyes, long, feathery lashes, snowy-white skin, raven-black hair tumbling down her back. Most elves of Greenwood possessed more earthy colors; all shades of brown, perhaps a few with a reddish tint, or soily blonde, eyes that were green or hazel. His father's kingdom certainly had few elves with ebony hair and porcelain flesh. And Lady Lalaith was a more willowy creature than Legolas was used to seeing in the women and girls of his kind; her limbs longer, her steps lither, her stride more liquid, as opposed to the practical, earthy strength he had grown accustomed to.

The better part of him had been surprised at her daring. It was not as if he was  _shocked_ and  _afraid for her_ as those around him had been, for he knew his father better than them, knew King Thranduil was not one petty enough to take offense at such trivial things. His father might be surprised (like him) and amused at Lady Lalaith's snark, but nothing more. 

Still, it was unexpected to see someone face his increasingly cold father with such resolution. Admirable, even. Either she was fearless or she was brave and composed; it was difficult for Legolas to tell which. Then matters became truly strange. There was something at play between his father and his father's guest. Legolas knew he was young, knew he was not particularly savvy or cunning, but that did not equal stupidity, and it was blatantly obvious that Lady Lalaith had harbored mischievous intentions. He did not think they were  _harmful,_ for he doubted that his father would have remained civil if they were, but she was not all that she appeared to be. 

So far, however, he found her rather pleasant and rather friendly, and certainly amusing to be in the company of. He continued to hope that she would satisfy his father's criteria, for she seemed a good choice - not only as a tutor, but, he hoped, as a friend, as well.

**~**

Thranduil watched his son leave the room. Some part of him longed to call out to Legolas, to call him back and hold his son in his arms to reassure himself that the child was real, flesh and blood, the flesh and blood of his queen and himself, and not some cruel illusion his mind perceived to cope with her loss. But he firmly smothered the desire as Legolas closed the doors behind him. 

He did not know if he was doing what was best for the little elfling. Legolas had wanted to draw the bow and knock the arrow for so, so long, he could tell. Thranduil would have instructed his son himself, gladly, but he could not. 

His eye. 

Thranduil stared at his reflection in the mirror. He did not need to remove the glamour concealing his hideous deformities to recall what they looked like, as clearly as if they had occurred not one moon before, although many decades had passed. The smell of burnt, cooked skin seemed to waft into his sensitive nose, although he knew it was nothing more than a cursory trick that thinking of his wounds elicited.

He  _had_ been an archer as well, before that incident, and a good, skillful one. His father had ensured that he had mastered every weapon created, although his preference had always lain with his long, double elven swords. 

The thought of Oropher prompted a familiar dull ache to pulsate in the king's chest. He could see his father in his own face: They shared the same strong, dark brows, although his father's had been heavier, the same pale pink lips with a deep Cupid's bow, although his father's lower lip had been fuller, and the same long, pale hair, though his father's had been even paler. He saw his mother in him as well, for the more slender, sleek angularity of his features was passed down from her.

_Adar. Naneth. Will you not guide me? Will you not show me if I am doing what is right for my son, your grandson? Faelwen, what must I do? You were always wiser when it came to our son. Should I let the elleth Lalaith teach him what he so desires? Or was it foolhardy of me to promise Legolas such a thing when I do not know her true intentions?_

He did not trust Lalaith. She was a liar, that much was an unspoken truth between himself and the young she-elf. He did not yet know even her true name. And yet, he could see that she bore no ill will towards him, or his son, or his people and realm. But that, alone, was not reason enough. 

Thranduil could not forget her queer jesting at the supper table, fresh and recent. She was spirited. It walked a thin line between bravery and foolishness - no, had crossed it several times - but he could not deny her petulant viciousness. Still, the king's ire had been ignited at her playful manipulation of his son, no matter how harmless her intentions might have been. Legolas was his son. He would tolerate no one who teased his son in such a manner.

It was difficult. Eru knew he tried his damndest to smother his emotions. Ever since Faelwen's death, the light in him had seeped out through his cracks, to be replaced by numbness. The agony of her demise was as painful at that moment as it had been seven decades ago, when she had fallen. Had he not had a realm to protect and a son she had left him, he would have thrown himself onto his own sword and perished beside her, to meet her in the Halls of Mandos.

But he did not, for the elves under his rule had need of him, and his son even more so. His people had no need for a king ruled by fickle emotions, and his son had no need of, no cause to respect, a father too weak to control himself.

His son. His _son._ His flesh-and-blood, the flesh-and-blood of his beloved wife. The awe with which Legolas always stared at him invigorated and yet seared Thranduil at the same time. His son adored him. His son was proud of him - and if he lost that adoration, that reverence; if he became a father his son could not respect and look up to, where was his worth as a father, then? What could he say he had done for his son, then?

For seventy years, Thranduil had grappled for rule of his sentiments.  _Never waver, never show doubt._ If he did, his realm would sense it, see it, feel it. If the king was in despair, then all were in despair. 

And he had become quite good at mastering himself. Yet seeing the impertinent elleth toy with his son had ignited his ire and threatened to dissolve his composure. 

Thranduil realized his jaw was clenched. Inhaling, he relaxed. It would do him no good to allow his anger to get the better of him.

 _Faelwen, give me strength._ He prayed now to his wife as he had once prayed to the Valar before the deaths of his father, his mother, and the mother of his son. Thranduil had abandoned calling upon Varda, Queen of the Stars, most beloved of the Eldar, or Manwë, Elder King of Arda, the highest authority of this world. If they did not prevent his kin from falling all around him, he thought bitterly, then he saw no need to ask for their guidance. 

Calmed down, Thranduil decided that he would not leave his son alone with Lalaith. He could not bring himself to believe that her craftiness would not resurface if she and his son were in the presence of each other and no one else. Nor could he bring himself to place his faith in another elf to parry her manipulative jests.

He would indulge Legolas his desire to learn archery, yes. But he would be there, watching and vigilant, to make sure his guest attempted nothing else. 

**~**

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

"My Lord Elrond." 

Elrond straightened and turned from where he had been sifting through the items on Nymíriel's desk. "Enter."

Aolis opened the door, looking slightly disconcerted at the fact that he was being allowed a look into Nymíriel's private chambers. Elrond understood. Usually, the rooms of the lords and ladies were the most guarded of spaces in Imladris. But now that Nymíriel was gone...

"Any word?" Elrond asked. Hope and fear rushed through his veins, weighing him down and invigorating him simultaneously. At the slightest word of his daughter, he was prepared to leap onto a horse and ride hundreds of miles in order to find her. 

_Please, Valar. Let her be found. Let my daughter be returned to me safely._

Aolis shook his head, squashing Elrond's hopes underfoot. "Onvyr and Ilthuryn have just returned from the Weather Hills. There is no trace of Lady Nymíriel. They report that they saw not even a sign that she has passed through the area."

Elrond sank down onto Nymíriel's bed. The scent of his youngest daughter still clung to the sheets, but it became fainter with each passing day, and it had been more than half a moon since she had vanished. It was not long until her fragrance would fade completely.

And there was still no sign of her...

_Where? Where are you, Nymíriel?_

The Lord of Imladris recalled the pitter-pattering of Nymíriel's feet as she had fled the scene after his chastising. Elrond had sighed after she had run off, wanting to rub his forehead in frustration, but he had refrained and bade Arwen to take command of tidying the gardens, which were in disarray after the warg's frenzy. By that point, almost everything else was back into working order, although the lives of the elflings could never be restored.

His words  _were_ rather harsh, but thinking of that moment, Elrond had been unable to hold them back. Five decades. For nearly five decades his daughter's fierce independence had burdened him. Hurt him, even.  _I am your daughter and not your servant,_ she had said, as if his sole purpose in ordering her not to go to the Weather Hills had been to treat her as his vassal. As if he was not concerned about her safety. It might have seemed to Nymíriel that he was overbearing, for she had never lived in the ages of war, before Morgoth and Sauron were vanquished.

But Elrond had. He had seen, with his own eyes, the devastation and greed that the Children of Iluvatar were capable of. He remembered his father and his mother and his brother, Maedhros and Maglor, Gil-Galad, Celebrian... After it all, how could he bring himself to trust luck with the safety of his daughter? 

Nymíriel had not understood. She never had. And Elrond was usually glad for it, because it meant she had not experienced such horrors. But when her adventurous nature flared, Elrond at times found himself wishing she had seen what he had, so she would understand his concerns. 

Still, his words had been harsh. Elrond admitted it. He felt the regret of uttering them gnawing at him from the inside.

He had been intending to visit Nymíriel after he finished reorganizing what was damaged, but fatigue and weariness had crept in almost the moment he had completed his tasks, and he had retired immediately to his bedchambers. Nymíriel could spend a night self-reflecting, he had decided, and they were both better off if he spoke to her after he had restored his strength and had a night to calm himself. She, too, would have acquired a cooler head in the morning.

The following day, he and Arwen had been at the table to break their fast during the night, waiting for Nymíriel to join them. Celebrian and he had decided upon three times, one for each daily meal, that they expected each other - "and our children in the future", Celebrian had smiled, her ocean blue eyes shining - to be at the table by. 

Nymíriel had overstepped the breakfast time by more than ten minutes.

At last, resigning himself to what would surely be a hurt and angered Nymíriel (and not wanting to burden the servants with dealing with his daughter when she was in such a sore mood; she could be wrathful), Elrond had gone to Nymíriel's bedchambers himself. There were no servants waking her, as Elrond expected his children to be able to rise from bed, dress, and wash themselves.

He had stopped at her door and knocked on the door. There was no answer.

"Nymíriel," Elrond called. "I am aware that you are frustrated and angry. And I understand that my words were hurtful. I am sorry. We will speak and come to an understanding, my daughter, but you must meet me with calm if we are to reach a solution."

Still, nothing. He heard not even the sound of anyone moving in the room. Bewildered and slightly exasperated, Elrond had opened the door, bracing for Nymíriel's annoyance.

Only, he had found nothing. 

The sheets were neatly made, which was so unlike Nymíriel that it gave Elrond pause for a second. After recovering from his surprise, he'd noticed that her traveling cloak and tunic, usually hung on the door of her wardrobe, were both gone, as were her daggers, sword, bow, and arrows. His initial thought was that his daughter, in her frustration, had departed on yet another one of her travels. She did not often leave without telling him where she was going; it had only happened twice before, and she had always left a note in her wake.

A suspicion was creeping over Elrond like decay crept over a corpse, and he forced himself not to dwell on it. Surely, surely not, he told himself, as he searched her desk and her vanity for any sign of a note. Upon finding none, he even searched under her bed and on the floor, all the while fighting the growing panic.

His efforts went unanswered, for he found not what he was looking for.

_She could not have..._

The mere thought caused his throat to close in horror.  _Be not a fool,_ he commanded himself, willing his heart to calm down.  _Surely she is merely upset and wishes some time alone. Surely..._

Anxious, Elrond left Nymíriel's room, closing the door behind him. As he did so, he heard the sound of footsteps and walked to meet them, coming face-to-face with Arwen.

"Father?" Arwen's voice was concerned, her thin, perfect brows crinkled. "Alma has informed me just now that Swiftwind is not in his stable." 

That suspicion came back from where Elrond had repressed it, forceful and insistent. Swiftwind was Nymíriel's favored mount. She had raised him since colthood, and their bond was powerful - Nymíriel rarely went anywhere without him.  _This proves nothing,_ Elrond had told himself upon hearing the news, struggling to push back the suspicion once more. 

Perhaps, he thought,  _Perhaps Nymíriel left a letter in my chamber?_ He did not remember seeing anything of the sort when he had woken, but he had been distracted with the burdens of his mind. He may have missed it. 

"Nymíriel will not come?" Arwen asked, bringing her father out of his thoughts. Elrond hesitated. He was loathe to inform Arwen that her twin had departed on yet another whimsical travel - yes, that had to be it, it _must_ be - without informing anyone, but if he tried to mislead her, his deceit would rather quickly become apparent. 

"She...is not here," he admitted. "Her traveling cloak and tunic, as well as her weapons, are gone as well. It appears that your sister has decided to be by herself for some time." 

Arwen's face grew sympathetic. Elrond knew that she did not begrudge her twin for the Warg's massacre. She was horrified by what had transpired, that was certain, but she did not hate Nymíriel for it. She had always been understanding in that way. "I see. Where has she gone?"

His next words Elrond was even more reluctant to utter. Nymíriel might have been wild-spirited and independent, but never had she gone anywhere without letting him know beforehand, most commonly in person. Himself, his family, and their servants had taken it as something of a rule that she required of herself to follow because there was not a single instance in the past when she had not. To tell Arwen that she had broken what they had all seen as a self-imposed order would surely startle her.

"I do not know." He had no choice but to say what he dreaded anyway.

Now true surprise flashed on Arwen's countenance. "You do not  _know?"_ Her tone was sharp with shock. "She did not leave a letter?" 

"If she has, I have not yet found it. It is not in her room, that is certain. Search your own chamber, Arwen, in case she has decided to leave word there by some strange whim. I shall search mine."

Arwen nodded and hurried off, her brows creased in worry. Elrond could only hope that the same suspicion that was taking root in him had not occurred to her, but his older daughter was intelligent, and he thought it likely that she was fretting about the notion that he was currently trying his damndest to disregard. He refused to even give verbal thought to it.

Arriving at his own chambers, Elrond opened the doors and walked to his desk, lifting and putting down papers, books, scrolls, and quills in his effort to locate a possible letter from Nymíriel. Logically, if he did not see it upon first glance it was not there, as he had not touched his desk since last night and if Nymíriel had left a letter, it would be on top of the unruly pile. Unless she concealed it intentionally.

Unsuccessful with his desk, Elrond turned to the other half of his room, where his bed, nightstand, and wardrobe were. As he approached, he realized that something on his nightstand that had not been there the night before was glinting in the morning light now that his curtains were drawn.

Drawing closer, Elrond saw, with trepidation, that it was the comb he had gifted Nymíriel with on her fourteenth name-day. He picked it up and stared at it, fear that his suspicion might be true finally exploding within his stomach. Suddenly, he could hardly breathe through the terror that he had been forcing himself to suppress. She could not have, could she...?  _Truly?_

_"It is beautiful, Adar," Nymíriel breathed, her youthful face glowing with delight as she clutched the comb in her small, slender hands. Elrond smiled, joy filling his heart at seeing his child so happy._

_"I am glad you like it, iell-nin," he replied._

_"Oh, Adar," his daughter beamed. "Thank you. I think it must be the most beautiful item I have owned."_

_"You say that only because it is a new accessory, do you not?" he teased. Nymíriel pouted. "No, Adar!" she insisted. "I speak truly!"_

_"If you say so, child." His tone was gently mocking, and his daughter sensed it._

_"Adar!"_

Elrond sank down into the mattress of his bed, his heart's pounding becoming so painful and so intense that for a moment he feared the cardiac failure that he had heard about in humans, although such a thing was impossible for the Eldar. Nymírielhad never gone on any of her escapades without her comb, no matter how angry, or frustrated, or irate, she had been. 

_Could she have truly fled - for good?_

The thought that he had been refusing to give voice to was dizzying. Elrond's world tilted on its axis and spun, and he did not know he managed to remain upright in a sitting position. He was panicking.  _Panicking._

 _I must find her. Nymíriel, that fool, that mischief-maker, that wayward child, I must find her._ He sprang to his feet with speed that startled even himself and all but stormed from his chambers, scaring a poor maid half to death. He would have apologized, but Elrond was too preoccupied with the horrifying thoughts and possibilities surging through his head, refusing to be staunched. 

She could be lost. She could be hurt. She could be killed by some sadistic twist of fate! If something happened to her... Elrond remembered his father's long absences, his mother hurling herself off a cliff, abandoning her sons... He remembered Maedhros and Maglor, the former's sternness and stability, the latter's tenderness and gentle concern, then Maedhros casting himself into flames, Maglor vanishing along the seashore, never to be seen again. He recalled Elros, his optimism and his perseverance, and his withering and aging and passing where Elrond could not hope to follow, Gil-Galad, his valor and his courage and his steadfastness, and his death, charred and scorched to death by Sauron. He recalled Celebrian, her brightness and her liveliness and her feistiness, and her broken sobs as he attempted to heal her, body and spirit, succeeding in only one. Her emptiness, her lack of animation or emotion, as she departed for the Grey Havens was forever engraved into Elrond's mind.

His parents, the two men who raised him, his twin brother, his liege and, more than that, his _friend_ , and his wife. Elrond has lost them all. And although, through his long life, one must expect to suffer pain and death, he had always wondered if it was normal for so many,  _so many,_ to leave him. Everyone, save for his children, that he had ever treasured and loved was dead or departed.

How could he lose Nymíriel as well? He could not. Elrond was sure that if he did, it would break him forever. 

Now, more than two weeks after her disappearance, Elrond's panic had not abated, only become less visible. To the eyes of his servants and his daughter, it appeared that he had calmed down. But he had not; he was not even close to calming down. He had been unable to sleep, barely able to taste his food, and it was impossible to try to relax. Entering meditative state was too trying with his turbulent state of mind. 

Though Nymíriel's feistiness had worn heavily on his mind since it first began to manifest itself, Elrond had not begrudged her of it. It was a trait she carried; it was part of her, and he loved all parts of his children. But now, faced with her disappearance, the potential that she was in danger, he found himself wishing that particular characteristic had not existed in his youngest daughter. Both Arwen and Nymíriel might have received comparison to Luthien Tinuviel for their beauty, but in temperament Nymíriel was far more akin to Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, the White Lady of the Noldor, daughter of High King Fingolfin, and sister of the later High King and King of Gondolin, Turgon.

And what had happened to the beautiful, spirited Aredhel? She had wandered into the forests against her brother's counsel and had become lost and taken to wife, most said against her will, by the Avarin lord Eöl. She bore him a son, Maeglin of Gondolin, but when her independent, adventurous nature took hold again her husband had refused to allow her to leave. Tired and stifled, the stories said that Aredhel had fled along with Maeglin from Eöl's forest and back to Gondolin, and her enraged husband had followed her. 

In his fury and betrayal, the Dark Elf had aimed a poisoned javelin at his son. Only it had not speared Maeglin, but rather the woman who very deliberately interposed herself between her son and her husband. Aredhel. 

She had died the next day. 

Elrond had not even been born when this rather dramatic tale unfolded, although its characters were kin to him. Maeglin had been the cousin of his paternal grandmother, Idril Celebrindal. (Tales also said he desired her, although that was beside the point.) Yet it was a prevalent tale in his life, one that his mother had whispered into his hair while holding him and Elros in her arms. It was one that Maedhros and Maglor, mostly the latter, had regaled Elrond and his twin with at times, to teach them some caution, for Aredhel had been their cousin, and a dear friend besides.

 _Ai, Valar!_ If he had only told Nymíriel this same tale, would she have learned prudence? At least _some?_ Elrond had considered it many a time, to take his youngest child aside and inform her of Aredhel's cruel fate, killed by her own husband in her wilfulness. But he had always stopped himself, for he had not wanted to imply to his daughter that her independence was  _wrong,_ that she should force herself to ignore what called to her. It would have been him attempting to stifle her, he knew, but surely stifling was better than  _danger?_

Were he not in the presence of Aolis, Elrond was quite sure he would have swept something - a bottle of perfume (Nymíriel had been taught how to use cosmetics), a mirror, a small chest filled with Nymíriel's linguistic, literary, and historical notes (she had taken a passion in all of them), a stack of her lead drawings (she had always had an artistic streak) - off of his youngest daughter's desk and sent it crashing to the floor, likely creating a mess, as a way to ease the terror and stress that seemed to be eating him alive from the inside. But he restrained himself, for he could not have his subjects witnessing their lord lose his sense in front of their very eyes.

"Thank you for your news nonetheless, Aolis," he said. He might make an effort to sound civil, but he had not the energy to try and sound pleasant as well. "Please continue to let me know if anything is discovered."

Aolis, sensing the clear dismissal, bowed his head and left the room, closing the door behind him. Elrond stared stonily at Nymíriel's desk. Before she had left -  _left_ \- she had organized everything neatly, and though it was unfamiliar to him (his youngest daughter had never been the most traditionally tidy of people), he did not dare, could not bear, to touch it, for he felt that he would be erasing one of her final actions in Imladris.

_They will not be **her final actions.** They will not. I shall find her. I must._

_She may be injured, fallen off a ravine or crushed under a tree,_ a cruel but familiar voice whispered in his mind.  _She may even be dead._ This voice had been a longtime companion of his; a manifestation of Elrond's own personal doubts and fears. It had first made its presence known when Maedhros died, throwing himself into a fiery chasm and burning to cinders, and had become ever stronger as more of his loved ones disappeared from around it. 

Almost violently, Elrond shoved it away. He could not bear to heed that voice now, else he would lose his sanity. Nymíriel would be found, he told himself. She would return to him, and when she did, he would make sure that  _never again_ did she venture anywhere without supervision or protection. 

Elrond recalled an instance, a certain instance in his childhood, where he and Elros had had the brilliant idea to give their foster fathers a playful scare by slipping into the woods in the dead of night. When Maedhros and Maglor had been out, attending to military matters elsewhere in the camp, they had slipped out of their tent and fled, giggling quietly, into the woods. There they had hidden for several hours, until torches lit up the surrounding area and the voices of their foster fathers rang through the trees.

Only, Maedhros and Maglor had not sounded the way Elrond had been intending. He and his twin brother wanted to lighten their guardians' hearts, for they had seemed heavy and grim as of the recent times. They had been waiting patiently to hear the amusement and playful searching in Maedhros and Maglor's voices as they came to search. 

The problem was that neither Maedhros nor Maglor sounded amused or playful. 

No. They sounded fearful, desperate, frantic. 

And so, dumbfounded and a little ashamed, Elrond and Elros had quickly revealed themselves. And by the Valar, their foster fathers had all but barreled towards them, twin expressions of fury and relief etched into their visages. Maglor had immediately knelt in front of the twins, brushing dirt, bits of leaves, and strands of grass off their hair, their clothes, their faces. His hands had been frantic.

 _"What possessed thee to carry out such foolishness?"_ Maglor had shouted, gripping the twins' shoulders in his hands.  _"Dost thou not understand that thou could have been lost? Or injured? Or worse? Dost not thine own safety concern thee? Art thou so foolish as to not realize that we were worried?"_ Then, before Elrond's very eyes, his foster father had embraced both of them and burst into quiet tears. Behind Maglor, Maedhros' gaze had been stony with anger. As if Maglor's weeping and his continuous chastising had not been enough, Maedhros had been waiting to deliver an all-out scolding behind his brother, one that was promptly unleashed right after Maglor had finished speaking. 

Needless to say, Elrond and Elros had never played such a trick again, and since that day Elrond had been aware that a parent (even a foster one) worried deeply and passionately and intensely when their child was out of their circle of knowledge. He had understood his surrogate fathers even more clearly when he first held Elladan and Elrohir within his arms. Then when Nymíriel had first ventured away from Imladris he had felt the gnawing worry of his child being out of his immediate sphere of protection. But only now did he truly experience the panic that they had experienced that day, when they thought he and his brother had vanished. Everything made sense, like a sudden ray of complete clarity; Maglor's tears, his embrace, his lecturing, Maedhros' anger, his shouting, the fury in his gaze. 

For, Valar help him, Elrond would do something quite similar once Nymíriel was returned to him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I originally didn't intend to write anything from Elladan and Elrohir's perspectives, but I felt that it would be a disservice to Tolkien. We know so little about the twin sons of Elrond and I really wanted to flesh them out a little, so here we are.
> 
> We also see things through the eyes of an _old_ friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ai - an exclamation  
> Arien - the Maia who pulls the sun across the sky

_Nymíriel, tell me - us - you are joking._

Elrohir had been quite eager and of good cheer when opening the unexpected letter from his home, Elladan at his side and peering over his shoulder. They had instantly recognized their father's elegant handwriting; the graceful flourishes and delicately-formed letters. He wrote in a very classically feminine style, their father. 

Then his twin had promptly snatched the letter gleefully from him; giving  _him_ the work of opening the envelope before thieving it away! Elrohir scowled but did not attempt to nab the paper back from his childish imp of a brother. Better to just allow Elladan to read it. 

"Let us see," Elladan said, calmly unfolding the piece of paper like he had not just acted like a buffoon. Elrohir would have rolled his eyes, but he was well used to his twin's ways at this point and simply stood still as Elladan began to read the words out loud, as was their custom when their father sent a letter. Both of them had been admittedly curious. Letters between themselves and their home had a system of giving and receiving once every three or four months, for messengers were hard to come by. And they had just sent a letter to Imladris not three weeks ago. The reply was unusually quick; was there some change?

_"Greetings, my dear sons._

_"I trust that these last few moons of your fostering in Greenwood have been as pleasant as usual. It grieves me to tell you, however, that your sojourning must be cut short. I will soon write to King Thranduil, and request that you two return."_

It had been at this point that Elladan had stopped and cast Elrohir a confused look, one that he wholeheartedly reciprocated. Cut short? Return? But why? This could only mean that something had occurred in Imladris, but what could be so grave that their father needed their presence back at home? 

"Keep going," Elrohir said, wanting to know as quickly as possible. Elladan continued to read:

_"I am sure this may come as a quite unexpected surprise, my sons. I am sorry; I know you both are very much thriving under King Thranduil's wing. He might be aloof on the outside, but I have long been acquainted with him. He is a good man."_

"Honestly, King Thranduil does not even speak much to us," Elladan piped up, breaking off again. "Adar seems to be quite familiar with his character, but I cannot judge yet." 

"Yes," Elrohir agreed consideringly, understanding his twin's sentiments. As long as he had known the King of Mirkwood, which, was not long, in comparison to the lengthy lives of elves: a mere eleven years, Thranduil had been cold and composed and stony. Elrohir had never seen him waver or sway in emotion or sentimentality. According to word, the king had been quite different when his wife was alive, but with his One gone and in the Halls of Mandos, he had changed quickly.

But who could say what lay behind that facade? Elladan's own father was not a man of emotions; Elrond's feelings ran passionate and strong and hot, but he controlled them with a firm hand, hid it all beneath a veneer of calm and tranquility. That did not mean he did not feel, and Elladan suspected it was much the same with King Thranduil, though the Sindarin elf was icier in personality than his father. It was not for him nor Elladan to judge Thranduil; or rather, they could, but they must keep in mind that their judgment was more than likely flawed. 

In any case, his twin continued reading:

 _"I am sure you are ardently curious of why this sudden change has come to pass. It is unfortunate that you must leave Greenwood, but the reason behind it is far uglier, I fear. Nymíriel and I have quarreled greatly, and she has..."_ Elladan's voice trailed off, his face turning pallid white and his eyes widening more than Elrohir thought possible. 

"What?" he asked sharply. "What is the matter? What has Nymíriel done?" 

_"...she has disappeared from Imladris. I can only assume that she fled deliberately, for Swiftwind, her weapons, and her traveling clothes have all vanished with her. Normally I would not have been quite so alarmed, for she at times does this. However, she left the comb I gave her for her fourteenth name-day on my nightstand before leaving. And she has not left a note as she usually does. That troubles me, my sons. Nymíriel has never gone anywhere without that comb, or without giving me some sort of information. regardless of how angry she has been before."_

Elrohir sat back heavily onto the mattress of his bed, his mind blank with shock. Nymíriel ... what? She... she _left?_ His father and his sister argued, and it had been so bitter that she  _left?_ As his father had stated, it would not be a cause for so much concern had she not abandoned  _that comb_ as well. That comb, aside from her weapons, was Nymíriel's favorite item. She had carried it with her since the day she had received it. Frustrated and enraged though she might become, she had never parted from it on her ventures. To hear that she had  _left it behind_ this time... Alarm bells were erupting in Elrohir's mind. He could see all-too-clearly why his father was so concerned.

And as if that were not telling enough, she had not left a note! Without information about her location they had no way to contact her. Well, there  _was,_ such as having a messenger hunt her down and give their words to her, but it would be far more difficult, and far less probability of success.

Elrohir remembered the most vicious disagreement that had estranged his father and his youngest sister from each other for  _five moons._ Nymírielhad been thirty-four years old then, still a very young elf, still an adolescent, still what humans called a teenager, though even at that young age it had not been uncommon for his youngest sister and his father to clash over their opinions. He did not know what it was they had argued over that particular time, but it had been a long and trying competition, one that left him, his twin, and Arwen exhausted despite the fact that they were not even  _part_ of the conflict. 

Then Nymírielhad galloped off under the cover of darkness, the only trace of her leaving being a letter that she had directed to their father, detailing where she was going and how long she would remain there. Their father had been beside himself with anger and worry, Elrohir recalled. Elrond had so desperately wished to saddle and horse and march to meet his youngest daughter himself, but his father had always been dutiful, and had refused to place his paternal feelings over his duties in Imladris.

So, a patrol of five had been sent to retrieve Nymíriel _._ They had returned a week later, with no sign of Elrohir's baby sister. In bewilderment (and rising ire, Elrohir had always suspected), Elrond had asked where Nymírielwas, and the reply -  _"We found her, my lord Elrond, but she refused to accompany us back to Imladris, regardless of anything we said to convince her. The only option would have been force, my lord, and we could not do that."_ \- had shaken Elrohir, Elladan, and Arwen. If Nymírielwas  _still_ refusing to come back, the significance of her quarrel with her father must have been truly devastating.

Amazingly, in Elrohir's opinion, his father had maintained his composure, thanked the patrol, then promptly turned to his twin sons, asking them to ride for their sister with all haste and convince her to return, entrusting them with a letter to Nymírielwritten in their father's own hand. In but a few hours Elrohir and Elladan had departed, and when they came across their youngest sister after four days of riding and tracking (even then, she could vanish so well into the wilderness!), they had given her the note.

Nymíriel, upon reading it, had handed it back with this to say: " _Thank Adar for his communication with me, will you? Tell him that if he so wishes to bridge the rift between us, I must have all the time here that I promised myself. Make sure to emphasize that I am safe and well."_ Any attempt to get her to decide otherwise had been met with a simple,  _"It will not be long until I return"_ or something of the sort. 

And so back Elrohir and his twin had gone, unsuccessful as the patrol had been, and had informed their father of Nymíriel's words. Elrohir had been certain that his father was going to throw something at his youngest child's stubbornness, but, once again,  _amazingly,_ Elrond had kept calm and dismissed them, saying  _"I wish to be alone."_

In that fashion, letters had gone to and fro between Elrohir's youngest sibling and his father. True to her initial world, however, Nymíriel had not budged and had not returned until five moons had passed, as she said she would. Upon her arrival home, she had conferred with their father for the entirety of a day, resolving their disagreements (Elrohir hoped). When Arien drew the sun into the sky the next day, Nymíriel and Elrond had reached a concession and were relaxed and familial in each other's presence once more. 

But even during this whole fiasco? Even when angered enough to stay away from home for  _five entire moons,_ despite all the efforts to convince her otherwise? Nymíriel had  _left a note,_ and she had  _taken her comb with her._ This time, she had not. 

Overwhelming urgency gripped Elrohir, washing away any disappointment he had at the prospect of leaving Greenwood. His little sister had gone missing; she had fled with her own two feet (or more literally, on her horse's own four hooves). His father had need of him. His other sister had need of him as well.  _Nymíriel_ had need of him. He had always supported her adventurous and independent spirit, but if it was truly in her mind to  _permanently_ leave Rivendell... He could not have that. 

Not just because he could not bear the thought of her presence being absent from his life. Because it was for her  _safety's_ sake as well. All it took - all that it took for disaster to strike - was a tiny misstep. Elrohir had seen it happen to his mother, seen Celebrian, wife of Elrond, smiling and laughing and glowing in all her radiance, and then _diminishing_ so fast and so hard that it felt as if she had died. He knew not what had happened to her during her imprisonment by Orcs, those worms, those maggots, but it had scarred her permanently, broken something inside her that even his father could not fix. 

Should Nymíriel suffer a similar fate, or worse, should she  _die_ , Elrohir doubted any of them would forgive themselves. A part of him stung with guilt, for it was him (and his twin) who had taught her the ways of the sword, the dagger, the bow, the horse. It was him (and his twin) who had taken her into her first escapades into the surrounding wilderness, teaching her how to survive and thrive in the lack of civilization. It was him (and his twin) who had most encouraged her wildness. And now where had it gotten them? 

Gazing at Elladan, they had both known what they must do.  _Begin packing._ Their stay in Greenwood the Great was over. Perhaps they would return, once Nymíriel was found, but for now, it was farewell.

That was how they ended up, each galloping full speed ahead in the direction of Imladris, the elven-guards that King Thranduil had set to accompany them left far behind in their haste. Elrohir's ebony hair was tied back, but the force of the wind slapping his face had ripped many strands from the ponytail to flutter in his eyes irritatingly. He impatiently tucked them behind his ears to clear his vision. 

Nymíriel, his wayward, untamable, foolish little sister! What would he do - what would they all do - if some ill fate befell her? Since her childhood years, Elrohir and Elladan had been closest to their father's youngest child. Despite the prevalent myths that twins always held unbreakable, unfathomable bonds between them, there was no great closeness between Nymíriel and Arwen. In temperament they were too different; Arwen was ladylike and feminine and courteous, happy to listen and learn and thrive in her current environment. Nymíriel, too, could be ladylike and feminine, was not always, and she was not courteous as Arwen was. Though "boisterous" was an inaccurate description of Nymíriel, for Elrohir's youngest sibling was not loud and demanding of attention and fond of shouting, her opinion was seldom withheld, even for the sake of civility. 

And of course, that unquenchable  _curiosity!_ Never had Nymíriel been satisfied with remaining in one place for too long; she quickly grew bored and found monotony deathly tedious. It made her capricious and whimsical, Elrohir thought. Always was Nymíriel thinking and creating and moving; from plunging herself into studies of ancient history and mythology of the Valar and the stars and the moon and the sun, to bringing scenes to life on once blank sheets of paper, to ravenously consuming great tales told of fictional but inspiring heroes and heroines, to, of course, what worried their father most - traveling and hunting and camping and tracking - Nymíriel had never been able to remain focused on  _just one thing._ Her attention was ever scattered and divided. And as much as he loved his sister, he had to admit - it made her quite irresponsible.

Knowing Nymíriel as well as Elrohir did, he could not imagine she would be foolish enough to land herself in life-threatening danger anytime soon. She had good instincts and skill. But  _still,_ she was his  _little sister_ and she had run away from home, with the obvious threat that she might choose to never return. 

_I cannot allow that to happen._

**_~_ **

Frankly, Elladan could not decide who needed to have some sense beaten into them. Himself, his twin, or his youngest sister. Perhaps all three. 

_Definitely all three._

He and Elrohir had just retired to their shared chambers when a knock at the door had prompted them to peer outside, where they were greeted by a servant, his head lowered respectfully. He had been holding out a letter.

"Oh, rise," Elladan said, straightening the servant's bowed posture. The boy gave him a look of such astonishment that Elladan could not help but grin, flashing a glance at Elrohir, whose expression mirrored his. "We don't care for such formalities." He gestured to the letter, already recognizing the curvaceous, elegant letters and handwriting. "Is that from our father?"

The boy, still taken off-guard, stammered, "Oh. Oh, y-yes, it is, my lor-"

"You've made a mistake," Elladan declared, flustering the servant further, whose face paled with slight horror. 

"My lord?"

Elrohir piped up, throwing him an exasperated look. "Ignore my dolt of a brother," his twin said. "He is simply jesting with you, trying to tell you that you need not treat us like we are of noble blood, in the most tedious and childish manner possible."

Elladan gave his twin a dirty look, which Elrohir promptly disregarded in favor of holding out his hand. The yet-still discombobulated servant handed it to him and practically scampered off.

"You are going to give us a negative reputation if you keep up such foolishness," Elrohir scolded, closing the door behind him, but Elladan did not miss the amusement gleaming in his twin's dark eyes. "As if you did not enjoy it," he retorted. Elrohir snorted but said nothing, instead prying the envelope open.

A sudden impulse sprang into Elladan's mind like a feline leaping at its prey, and he lurched forward, snatching the letter from his twin's hand before Elrohir could react. Triumphant at the sensation of the piece of paper now clutched in his own grip rather than his brother's, he darted a safe distance away, although he doubted Elrohir would bother trying to retrieve it.

And he was right, for his twin's only retaliation was another annoyed glower, to which Elladan smiled in response. Ah, Elrohir. His twin brother had always been the more passive of the two of them, unconcerned with what he deemed to be wasted efforts.

 _I certainly do not mind,_ Elladan thought, for their differing temperaments allowed them to cover each other's weak spots and complement the other - and more often times, it allowed him to play such mischiefs on his twin without any fear of serious retaliation. Elrohir let the little things go. 

"Let us see," Elladan announced dramatically as he unfurled the letter, once again confirming his father's handwriting in its feminine style. For what reason could their father have written to them so quickly? Their correspondence occurred at a rate of every few months (Elladan left it up to Elrohir to know the specifics, which he likely did), but it had not even been one moon since he and his twin had sent their most recent reply on its way to Imladris. Had their father simply decided to respond as soon as possible? 

Or was it something else? Elrond was a busy man, and Elladan found it hard to believe that his father had managed to find the time, so soon after his previous letter. But what could "something else" possibly be? Orcs? Unlikely. Most of those filthy beasts, still remnants from Sauron's defeat at the hands of the Last Alliance, were all but extinct, but Elladan and his twin would gladly deal with another Orc infestation. There was nothing quite as  _satisfying_ as wiping those parasites out with his own two hands. Remembering what they did to his mother  _burned._

Mastering his anger, for there were no Orcs to be killed here, Elladan focused entirely on the letter and began to read. 

_"Greetings, my dear sons._

_"I trust that these last few moons of your fostering in Greenwood have been as pleasant as usual. It grieves me to tell you, however, that your sojourning must be cut short. I will soon write to King Thranduil, and request that you two return."_

What? Return? Had his far-fetched prediction, perhaps, not been so far-fetched after all? Thoroughly confused, Elladan glanced at Elrohir, whose perplexed expression mirrored his own. 

"Keep going," Elrohir urged, and Elladan complied, his eyes scanning the paper and continuing to read: 

_"I am sure this may come as a quite unexpected surprise, my sons. I am sorry; I know you both are very much thriving under King Thranduil's wing. He might be aloof on the outside, but I have long been acquainted with him. He is a good man."_

"Honestly, King Thranduil does not even speak much to us," he commented. "Adar seems to be quite familiar with his character, but I cannot judge yet." 

"Yes," Elrohir agreed, voice thoughtful. 

Elladan had heard his father speak of King Thranduil before, but if he was being frank, he could not see much of the "goodness" in the king. Thranduil was not tyrannical or despotic, no, but he treated his subjects coldly. He spoke to them _like_ they were servants; curt and brusque. Much unlike their father, who was always friendly and courteous, to everyone, right down to the servants who served their food. 

He understood that Thranduil had lost his wife, but so had his own father, and Elrond had never allowed that to make him cold and withdrawn. After such a grievous loss, for Elladan had heard much of the Queen of Greenwood and how beloved she was, a king should strengthen his bond with his people, not distance himself from them. 

Yet when he did voice (or rather, write) his misgivings about the king to his father, Elrond's response had always been something of this sort:  _he may be cold on the outside, but he has lost much and has nobility and bravery._ His father claimed to be mere acquaintances with Thranduil, but Elladan could not help wonder sometimes if they had been friends. If they had not been, why would his father be so confident in the king's goodness? 

Well, it did not matter. It appeared that he was to leave Thranduil's wing, anyway. He read on:

 _"I am sure you are ardently curious of why this sudden change has come to pass. It is unfortunate that you must leave Greenwood, but the reason behind it is far uglier, I fear. Nymíriel and I have quarreled greatly, and she has..."_ As his mind absorbed the next words, Elladan trailed off in shock, his eyes bulging. . _..She has disappeared from Imladris. I can only assume that she fled deliberately, for Swiftwind, her weapons, and her traveling clothes have all vanished with her..._

_What?_

_Nymíriel **ran away**?_

"What?" Elrohir's voice was sharp with curiosity and concern. "What is the matter? What has Nymíriel done?"

Elladan hesitated. Some part of him did not want to read this letter aloud, for he (rather foolishly) felt that he would be making it a reality of he did. But he could feel Elrohir's potent gaze on him and new his twin was not going to let this slide quite so easily as he usually let most minor things. So he read on.

And as he did, he grew even more worried.

_"...she has disappeared from Imladris. I can only assume that she fled deliberately, for Swiftwind, her weapons, and her traveling clothes have all vanished with her. Normally I would not have been quite so alarmed, for she at times does this. However, she left the comb I gave her for her fourteenth name-day on my nightstand before leaving. And she has not left a note as she usually does.That troubles me, my sons. Nymíriel has never gone anywhere without that comb, regardless of how angry she has been before."_

Ai, by the Valar. This was very concerning indeed. That comb - Nymíriel treasured it to an almost odd degree, for a reason Elladan could not fathom and did not care to know. Since it had come into her possession she had never gone on any of her travels without it. And as if that were not bad enough, she had not informed anyone of her destination, even through merely pen and paper. Though there was no proof, Elladan suspected that this would indeed be a rather particular incident. 

Most certainly, it was not the first time that his father and his youngest sister had gotten themselves in the midst of a disagreement. His father did not express his worry verbally to Elladan, but it was obvious on his face and in his eyes every time he watched Nymíriel trotting off on the back of her horse towards her newest adventure. Elladan even suspected that his father was not trying to hide his concern. Often, before he and his twin were fostered by Thranduil, Elladan had stumbled, usually only half-awake, into the dining hall for breakfast and noticed that his father and Nymíriel were avoiding eye contact, making an effort not to have any cause to acknowledge the other, and knew that there had been yet another quarrel between father and daughter. 

He recalled one particularly nasty argument (and it was quite nasty, for it trumped anything else that had occurred in his younger sisters' fifty years of life). Nymíriel, at thirty-four winters old, had gotten so angry that she had galloped off into the forests in the dead of night without bothering to tell any of them. The only sign she had left behind had been a note, curtly informing their father of where she was going and when he could expect her to return. Of course, Elrond had been beside himself with worry, caught up in his duties governing the valley but unable to get his daughter's safety off of his mind, so he had sent a patrol to recover his daughter.

The patrol had returned distressed and empty-handed, saying that their lady had refused to come with them and that, unless they used force, which they would never do, Nymíriel would not be coerced into returning before she wanted to. Elladan had been sure that his father was going to lose his composure at his little sister's obstinance, but, amazingly, Elrond had remained calm - at least on the outside - and thanked the patrol for their efforts. Then their father, still preoccupied with Imladris' matters, had sent Elrohir and Elladan to fetch their sister this time, accompanied with a letter directed to her. 

Elladan knew not what the letter had said, but after reading it, Nymíriel had replied, _"Thank Adar for his communication with me, will you? Tell him that if he so wishes to bridge the rift between us, I must have all the time here that I promised myself. Make sure to emphasize that I am safe and well."_

Quite speechless at her defiance, Elladan and his twin had, like the patrol, returned to Rivendell without their sister, for she had refused all their attempts to convince her with a serene,  _"I shall return soon."_ This time Elladan had been positive that their father would do something, even something as little as scowl, but he had remained serene as well, his tranquility matching Nymíriel's unflinching. 

Messages had traveled back and forth between Elrond and Nymíriel. 

When their little sister had  _finally_ returned from that venture after _five moons_ , she and their father had spent the entirety of a day in his chambers, and each time he walked by, Elladan could hear them speaking to each other. In any case, by the next day, they had resolved their issues and were loving father and daughter once more. Many disagreements had occurred following, but none of them had taken quite so long or quite so much effort to resolve. But even then, she had taken her treasured comb with her! Even then, she had left a letter!

Even then, she had provided some window of communication by informing them of her location! But this time...

This time,  _nothing!_

And her confidence is not baseless, for Elladan and Elrohir were the ones to teach her the ways of the wild. Nymíriel had a natural aptitude for such things; her instincts were sharp, her hunting skill was lethal, and she had the cleverness and motivation necessary in spades. Ah, but he used to think his youngest sister was intelligent! He still did, but Elladan could not help thinking Nymíriel was a fool for her actions. What was she thinking? 

What was  _he_ thinking, to cultivate her natural talent into such ruthless expertise? He had known about her wild nature and had approved of it, but he most certainly had not considered that it might lead her to outright  _run away_ \- for he was sure she was choosing to run away, his own instincts told him so, though he prayed that they were wrong - if she was so hurt or angered?

Speaking of being hurt or angered, _what_ had their father said to her to spur her into such drastic action? What in Eru's name had happened, for his levelheaded father to reach such levels of anger?

He had to know, and to do that, they had to return home. He was going to track down his foolish younger sister, and then he was going to knock some sense into her, for scaring him so, for scaring their father and their sister so! 

Now, a day later, Elladan was on a horse, Elrohir riding beside him, the two of them galloping side-by-side at full speed in the direction of Imladris. They did not bother waiting for the escorts that Thranduil had given them, for their urgency was too great. The longer they delayed the further away Nymíriel could be getting, and that was unacceptable. 

_**~** _

Once again, the golden-haired elf was struck by how the grounds had changed since Sauron's defeat. He recalled the skies choked with ash and dust, the grounds barren and covered in cinders; no vegetation visible. But most vividly of all he recalled the terror that seemed to have taken hold of all beings. Their faces and gazes shadowed, their voices hushed as if afraid someone could hear them, their eyes darting every-which-way like the Dark Lord himself would emerge from the doorway. 

Ah, but the will of the Valar was hard to comprehend! He had been sent to assist the Eldar and the Secondborn against Sauron during the Second Age, then summoned back to Valinor in the beginnings of the Third Age, only to be sent back around one and a half centuries later (at least he thought so, time was a difficult concept for one such as himself), _only then_ to be called back to the Undying Lands after a scant twenty years to dwell for the better part of a century, before departing back over the sea to Middle-Earth to pass yet more time! He did not even know what purpose the Valar had for requesting him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Yet he did not mind terribly. Of course, there were certainly unsavory qualities about his role, for he missed the dear friends that he so often left behind in Aman. But it was also a pleasure to continuously walk in the lands of Middle-Earth, acquainting himself with the current inhabitants. The Eldar had become so  _few;_ the Third Age was far more an age of the Secondborn. Isildur's heirs continued to be prominent figures behind the scenes, yet the few elves that remained were dear to his heart as well.

Elladan and Elrohir, Elrond's twin sons. Nymíriel and Arwen, his twin daughters. He had encountered all four of them, although truthfully there had been more opportunity of spending time with the former two than the latter two, as his duties and travels had called him away. Not only were they the line of the famed Half-Elven, of course, but they - and Elrond as well - were kin to people who had been very dear to him. Tuor. Idril. Eärendil. 

In looks they might have differed, but sometimes he caught glimpses of Eärendil in Elrond. The same furrowed brows in the midst of poignant concentration. The same habit of rubbing his chin thoughtfully. In Elladan and Elrohir he saw the same stalwartness that had ever made Tuor notable. In Arwen he can see Idril's grace and friendliness, her open heart, and in Nymíriel he can catch fleeting glimpses of the Vanyarin woman's strength of spirit, her steady determination. 

Yes, the Peredhel line was indeed precious to him, Glorfindel thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guess it was Glorfindel? :3  
> Honestly though, you did, since he mentioned several things that pertain to Glorfindel: Idril, Tuor, and Eärendil. But "golden-haired elf" was probably the first sign for most of you :P


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lalaith reflects upon Nymíriel, her relationship with her father, and then is called away for a not-so-unexpected task.
> 
> A.k.a it's a filler chapter, sorry guys.

Despite her efforts to keep her mind off of Nymíriel and her family, Lalaith found that her thoughts were continuously straying to them, now that she was confined in the guest chamber of King Thranduil's halls with naught to do but read. She enjoyed the reading, most definitely, but it was not all that she wanted to spend her time on.

She pointedly ignored her mind's implication that she still had associations with them - with Nymíriel's kin.  _I am merely thinking of them because I must be vigilant and predict their next move. I cannot be caught._

A troubling possibility that had been at the corner of her thoughts now bloomed, watered by her solitude and lack of anything else to do:  _Do they still, perhaps, believe that Nymíriel has just left temporarily?_

The possibility was not too ridiculous. Even though Lalaith had broken what were two self-imposed unspoken rules of her usual travels (since Nymíriel's latest escape was no "usual travel"), which were bringing her comb and leaving a letter, both of which Nymíriel had not done this time, it was not implausible for Nymíriel's family to think that she was merely so angry and resentful that she had decided to give them a scare. 

Lalaith did not have a difficult time imagining Nymíriel doing such a thing. Nymíriel was a selfish and spoiled and reckless girl, and that selfishness and spoiled nature and recklessness had gotten elves, elves that were so _young,_ killed. _I have learned from her foolishness,_ Lalaith told herself.  _I will not follow her example._

But. That was not the point. 

Lord Elrond's visit to Lothlorien in search of Nymíriel might have been a sign that he knew she had fled for certain, but Lalaith did not feel that it was sufficient evidence. Nymíriel's father might merely be concerned that she had chosen to venture out without giving him any information of her location through the usual letter. Or perhaps he feared that on her expedition she would decide to leave for good, and he wished to prevent that before it came to pass. Whatever the case, it did not mean for sure that Nymíriel's family was aware of her intentions to never return. 

And if they remained unaware of them, there was a greater chance that they would continue to search for her. Lalaith could not have that. It was utterly unfair to Lord Elrond, Lord Elladan, Lord Elrohir, and Lady Arwen, for their hopes to remain so pointlessly and hopelessly alive. How to communicate to them that Nymíriel was not coming back?

Lalaith recalled the most vitriolic argument that had divided Nymíriel and Lord Elrond for the entirety of five moons. What had begun as a simple disagreement over Nymíriel's previous trip - her journey to the Weather Hills - had evolved before their very eyes into a spewing of frustration and resentment on either side. Lord Elrond had tried to place some boundaries on Nymíriel's travels: their maximum length, their maximum distance from Imladris, and so on, expressing his concerns and doubts over her constant venturing, and she had refused to have any of it, snapping that her father was "too consumed with past events".

Lord Elrond, understandably after witnessing Nymíriel's utter lack of respect for his concerns, had finally erupted and called her a "thoughtless child" who "had absolutely no concern for the potential consequences of her actions". Nymíriel had then stormed out of her father's chambers and, that very night, departed on Crowfeather to dwell near the Midgewater Marshes, where she had spent five moons. Any efforts by Lord Elrond to convince her to return, even the promise of reconciliation and attempting to better tolerate her sojourns, had been fruitless, for Nymíriel had been insistent that she remain in the marshes as long as she had detailed in her departure letter.

 _She was a fool,_ Lalaith thought bitterly,  _A senseless, selfish fool. Lord Elrond was right. She did not even consider what dangers she might bring into Imladris during her travels. She did not understand that Lord Elrond was concerned for the safety of the valley he ruled._

But even then the wayward girl had at least left a letter. Still, parents did not let go of their children easily, she understood that much. She did not think the absence of Nymíriel's usual note, or even the fact that she had left her comb behind, would be enough to convince Lord Elrond that his daughter was not coming back.

What to do...

Even if Lalaith were not essentially imprisoned, a letter would not do. She could not deliver it personally, and it would risk far too much to entrust it to another; her connection to Nymíriel might be revealed. And in Nymíriel's hurt and fear and haste to leave she had not had the foresight to inform her kin that she would never return. Lalaith sighed. 

Perhaps she could fake Nymíriel's death... Well, Nymíriel  _was_ dead. She could produce physical evidence of it. But how would she ensure that Lord Elrond saw, or at least heard word of, "her" corpse?

He might send out more search parties. If the scouts came across "Nymíriel's" body they would report it to Lord Elrond, and his search would be over. But Lalaith could not think of any way to guarantee that the scouts came across "Nymíriel's" corpse. To do that she would need to know their paths of travel, and that was impossible.

Of course, assuming Lord Elrond would even send out more search parties! Though, knowing Nymíriel's father, how loving he was, he likely would. 

 _Nymíriel did not deserve a father such as Lord Elrond,_ thought Lalaith, spitefully and guiltily. The girl had repaid his affection and his concern with scorn for the sake of her shortsighted whims. How could anyone be as self-absorbed and capricious as Nymíriel had been?  _Just as well that she is gone now._

She still did not know how to dash his hopes. The image of Lord Elrond realizing that his daughter was never going to return to him, the image of Elladan and Elrohir and Arwen realizing that their sister was gone forever, caused a lump to rise in Lalaith's throat, but it would be what was called a cruel mercy. It was cold and brutal of her to do such a thing to Nymíriel's kin, but far from heartless. She had their best intentions in mind. This  _was_ the best thing she could do to repay them. And they would forget Nymíriel eventually; she had not been a daughter or sister worth remembering. 

 _Knock. Knock. Knock._ "Lalaith?"

Lalaith stood. "I am coming." She hurried across the guest chamber and opened the door to find herself staring into the hazel eyes of one of her guards, whose name was Glaewiel. "What is it?"

Glaewiel gave her a queer, thoughtful look. "King Thranduil has ordered your presence in the archery field," the other woman explained. "For what, I do not know. I am to escort you there."

 _The archery field..._ She had a few guesses as to why Thranduil would want here there.Lalaith recalled her teasing of Legolas during the meal the night before. Had the prince asked his father to allow her to teach him? Or had Thranduil decided that his son could use a tutor to help him learn the ways of the bow and the arrow? Thinking about the king's cold personality and his reasonable distrust towards her, Lalaith wagered that it was the former. And if he did not trust her, it likely meant he would keep some sort of precaution about while Lalaith was in Legolas' presence. 

But besides that, why did the king not teach Legolas himself? Was he not skilled with a bow? Was  _no one_ in the Woodland Realm skilled enough to teach the prince? Archery was not difficult once the basic concept was understood. From then it was simply practice that mattered (though certain techniques would be much easier to learn with the help of a teacher). Lalaith was aware through Nymíriel that Thranduil's father, King Oropher, had fallen in the Battle of Dagorlad in the Second Age (year 3434 if memory served). A considerable amount of time had passed, but not so great a time in the life of one of the Eldar. Had military matters not been practiced since Sauron's defeat in S.A. 3441? Or did the Woodland Elves simply not make use of bows and arrows?

"I understand, Glaewiel," she acknowledged. "I am coming. Just allow me to change into something more appropriate."

The brown-haired woman nodded professionally, closed, and locked the door. Lalaith turned to the chest in her room and opened it. She was not exactly certain if she would find attire fit for archery practice in there, but thinking of King Thranduil, she felt as if he would have thought everything through. Earlier in the morning she had been escorted out for a walk through the immediate forest surrounding his stronghold. Perhaps he had placed something in the chest during then. Or perhaps she was being ridiculous and expecting too much of the king. 

_Ah._

Delighted at her find, Lalaith pulled out the outfit that had certainly not been inside the trunk before. It was a dark blue-green [tunic](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/0cbcb012-7aa3-47c0-bdb4-dae177af541c/d9x2rp2-00124137-5de7-4df9-9fe9-d24e79661799.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzBjYmNiMDEyLTdhYTMtNDdjMC1iZGI0LWRhZTE3N2FmNTQxY1wvZDl4MnJwMi0wMDEyNDEzNy01ZGU3LTRkZjktOWZlOS1kMjRlNzk2NjE3OTkuanBnIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.k74goi6ZLiIy7RZuP89VGp8DQPnPrJqpordw6zK3x5E) of light material with reddish-brown gilds at the shoulders, the ends of the sleeves, and the end of the skirt. Folded neatly on top of it was a sash that was meant to hold it together at the waist.  _This is good._

She stripped off her current outfit with the exception of the leggings, leaving it on her bed, and slipped into the new one before tying the sash around her waist. Its fabric of the tunic was comfortable but coarse, fit for physical exertion, and the slits in the skirt allowed for a wide range of leg movement. Good.  _This is perfect._

Lalaith still did not have her bow, but she assumed she would be given it - or at least any bow - in the archery fields. She opened the door again, where Glaewiel was waiting. "I am ready."

The other woman nodded and simply stepped to the side, gesturing for Lalaith to come. She did, the Glaewiel fell into step beside her. Lalaith did not attempt to make conversation, feeling particularly appreciative at the moment that Glaewiel was a woman of few words. At least, she was towards her. Perhaps, no, likely, she was different with those she was close with. 

Lalaith followed her escort through the halls, again pleased that she was beginning to formulate a mental blueprint of Thranduil's stronghold, though she was sure she had not been exposed to even half of its entirety. Her suspicion was confirmed when Glaewiel led her to a different area that she had not been in before, and soon, if not for her guide, Lalaith would have been helplessly lost. 

 _Perhaps that is why there are seldom newcomers in King Thranduil's realm,_ thought Lalaith testily.  _His halls are, by the Valar, too confusing. Or perhaps I just lack directional sense._

In any case, she found herself passing through a set of doors into a wide-open area. At the other end of the gigantic room was a row of six targets, standing side-by-side. Staring at them, Lalaith's fingers itched to knock, draw, and loose an arrow and send it flying towards the bullseye. But of course, she did not have a bow or arrows yet.

Pulling her focus away from the targets, Lalaith took in the people standing in the room; the people who were, at this moment, approaching her. A group of six guards, all clad head-to-toe in armor. Leading them was... King Thranduil? He was here  _personally?_ She had expected precautions, yes, but she had not imagined that the king would be here in the flesh. If it meant he considered her a worthy enough "opponent" (using the term mildly, for Lalaith had no true ill intentions against Thranduil or any of his people) that he had to personally watch her, then she felt somewhat honored. 

The king was holding a bow that looked small in proportions to him. Too small; if he planned to shoot, a bow too small for him would be an inconvenience. For her, then? 

Next to his father, looking ridiculously tiny against Thranduil's immense height (though Lalaith was even shorter, she reminded herself with a hint of annoyance) was Legolas. Again he was in patrol gear, but his whitish-blonde hair was plaited in a braid, similar to his fashion during their shared supper the night before. Lalaith studied the king and the prince. Thranduil was taller (naturally), of a more powerful build, and his features were much harder. Legolas must have inherited many of his mother's looks, she surmised, although the Thranduil in him was plain to see as well. They both had the same pale skin and the same blue eyes that were a shade darker than her own. 

"King Thranduil, I did not expect to see you here as well," Lalaith commented, curtsying. The king inclined his head as she rose and flashed Legolas a smile. "Prince Legolas," she said, with a slight hint of mischief. He nodded a bit awkwardly and looked away, and that was all Lalaith saw of him before Thranduil stepped in front of his son, effectively cutting Legolas off from her sight, leaving only the top of the prince's head visible. Thranduil's face was full of warning. 

By Eru, the king was protective when it came to his son. It could not be helped, Lalaith supposed, considering that Thranduil had lost so many people in his life, but it was not as if she wished Legolas any harm. It reminded her a bit of - she ignored the sudden lump in her throat - Lord Elrond and Nymíriel. Although Lord Elrond had never been as blatantly defensive as the king in front of her, the look in their eyes was not a far cry from each other. 

Yielding to the king's anger(? She hoped not), Lalaith took her gaze off of Legolas and looked Thranduil in the eyes. "My lord," she spoke plainly. "What would you have me do here?"

"I wish to test your skill with archery." 

Well. This was not unexpected, but... "Why?"

"Pass the test and I shall tell you."

Naturally. What was she thinking, expecting this king to disclose his intentions to her? Of course he would want to keep her as ignorant as possible of what was going on inside his mind. He did not trust her, Lalaith reminded herself. 

Thranduil called it a "test". Her guess was that he wanted to see if she was qualified for something. And recalling the supper they had had the previous day, she could not help wonder if it had something to do with Legolas. 

Well, she would oblige the king and his son. She  _could_ oblige them, quite easily. 

"Very well," Lalaith extended her hand. "If you please, hand me that bow, my lord. I must see if it agrees with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally planning a much longer chapter, but I accidentally clicked the "post without preview" button when I was barely halfway finished. So I just closed the scene and decided to save the actual test for the next chapter. Sorry about that :/


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In summary, Thranduil is trying to deal with the remnants of Legolas' puberty issues as Lalaith begins her test. (I'm sure we can all relate to the first part.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have begun to put a vocabulary section of sorts in the end notes because the story will contain many references to earlier events, people, and places in Tolkien's legendarium. They can get very confusing, so I wanted to help the readers who may not be as completely obsessed with Tolkien as I am :3

"Very well," the girl held out her hand. It was small, with long, slim fingers, and very pale, Thranduil saw. "If you please, hand me that bow, my lord. I must see if it agrees with me."

Lalaith - as she insisted she call him, although they were both aware that it was not her  _real_ name - was a tiny little thing. His son was short compared to him, and Lalaith was even shorter than Legolas. The crown of her head did not quite reach the lowest slope of his shoulders, and Thranduil knew his shoulders were broad from his years upon years of sword fighting. He had not quite realized how small she was previously, but then, their previous meetings had either been filled with tension, as their first meeting was, or filled with tension _and_ conducted when one or both of them were seated, as was their meeting yesterday during supper. And as if that were not enough, he could only see out of one eye, as his other had long been blinded by dragonfire. Although the eye that could see had sharp and clear vision, his injured side was a blind spot and he was not able to observe her thoroughly without openly staring at her.

In this more relaxed, although still rigid atmosphere, Thranduil had an excuse to stare openly, and took careful note of every single thing about his "guest". As he noticed during their first encounter, her hair was long and the blackest of blacks, currently shining and well-groomed as she had likely taken a bath recently, and pulled up into a high [ponytail](http://cfile8.uf.tistory.com/image/9938983B5AEC9B3D06A8F2). A few midnight strands framed her pale face. 

Ah yes. Pale. It made for a sharp contrast with her hair. Her eyes were large and a haunting shade of blue, so pale that he would go as far as to label them bluish-grey. Classically Noldorean features; not exactly like her supposed relative Elrond, whose hair was lighter, a very dark brown, whose eyes were not quite as intermixed with grey, who was not quite as alabaster as his relative, or at least, who Lalaith claimed to be his relative. In frame she was slender with long limbs.

Her eyes were guarded, as if she had endured some significant hardship. If her parents had truly died as she claimed they had then it was not strange, but Thranduil could not bring himself to believe her. She might be quite good at concealing her emotions at her young age, but she had not yet managed to hide the cunning that glinted in those pale eyes, and it could not be ignored. His guest was no threat to his safety, or his son's, or his kingdom's, but that was not reason enough to trust her.

Overall, something about the girl reminded Thranduil of a feline. Perhaps it was the sly, crafty grace she seemed to possess. He might have found that grace amusing had it not been directed towards himself and his son several times. It was why he was here in person, after all. To shield Legolas from whatever trick she might be trying to play. She was already close to getting her way when it came to coercing his son with the implied promise of archery. As he'd promised Legolas, if her skill was sufficient, she would be allowed to teach him. He found himself hoping that it would not be. But even if it was, he would ensure that his son remained well unaffected by her conniving ways. 

He handed her the bow. Lalaith took it calmly, testing out its weight and balance with a thoughtful expression on her face. Thranduil himself recalled the feel of doing the same thing, although he had not done it since his incident with the dragon. He had not been all too fond of archery, so he did not miss it terribly, but the longing was there. He suspected it had more to do with the fact that if he were in the midst of such an action, it would mean his injury had never occurred, rather than any actual desire to practice archery again. 

Thranduil glanced at his son discreetly. Legolas' eyes were wide with wonder and curiosity as he observed every detail of Lalaith testing out the bow. Again Thranduil was swamped with that overwhelming urge to protect his son from anything and everything, to embrace Legolas and keep him safe from all the dangers and cruelties of the world. At little more than seven decades, the boy was still so young...

He pushed away the urge, reminding himself that emotion would lead to folly, and folly was so often fatal for one in a position such as him.

"This will do nicely," the girl concluded after experimentally drawing the string, aiming, and releasing. She turned to him with a polite smile. "Will you hand me those arrows, please?"

Thranduil was about to reply that it was no great effort to walk and fetch them herself, but the retort died in his throat and Legolas all but sprang from his side, grabbed the quiver of arrows, and handed them to Lalaith. Thranduil did not miss the excitement, impatience, and hope gleaming in Legolas' eyes. They were all so plain to see, and he was sure his guest saw them as well. He eyed Lalaith, searching for any sign of that wiliness to emerge in her gaze again. If she attempted to manipulate his son a second time, he would not stand for it. He did not think he could even handle the mere thought of her seeing Legolas' anticipation and turning it to her advantage. 

But Lalaith merely smiled as Legolas handed her the arrows. There was not one hint of calculation or scheming in her eyes, on her face, or about her body and her general air. Unless she had suddenly become much more adept at feigning her emotions or Thranduil's own perception had dropped significantly, the smile she offered his son was nothing but genuine. "Thank you," she said before slinging the quiver over her shoulder. 

Thranduil very nearly missed it, but he could have sworn that Legolas' gaze lingered on Lalaith before his son almost _shyly_ looked away.

 _By Eru's name, do not tell me..._ Could Legolas be cultivating some sort of infatuation for Lalaith? His son was still in his growing stage; nearly out, but still in it nevertheless. And Lalaith was beautiful, that could not be denied. Long black hair and pale blue eyes and a sweet voice, a predatory grace - she was very unlike most of the elleths in his realm, and not just in appearance. Especially given Legolas' status as a prince, many of the women were distant, dutiful, and dignified towards him. It was the culture of Greenwood. Even married couples would not be caught dead kissing, or so much as hugging, in public spaces. Contrast with Lalaith's friendly openness towards his son; her unrestrained smiles, her wide, curious gazes. No doubt he was not used to and flustered by it. Men, or even boys, liked new things best, and that was precisely what Lalaith was to Legolas; someone new and lovely and friendly who was skilled at something that he wished to learn. 

Thranduil supposed, given these circumstances, infatuation was not too unusual. But it still made his skin prickle. Lalaith's intentions were not outright malicious, but it did not sit well with him that his son might be enamored with an outsider, someone Thranduil did not trust, someone who had secrets that he did not know of. It was not the first time Legolas had been smitten with a woman, and although Thranduil had hoped his previous one had been his last, for it was near time that Legolas was considered fully grown, it appeared that his hopes had been in vain. At least, it was clear that his son's stomach fluttered, if only slightly, because of Lalaith. 

And should she pass this test, it would mean she and his son would spend much more time in each other's company. Even with Thranduil's presence, he could not be sure what would happen. He did not want Lalaith realizing that his son found her attractive, but he found it difficult to imagine that she would let such a detail pass under her notice. The girl was perceptive. 

It could unfold in two ways if Lalaith was qualified, Thranduil thought. His son's fondness towards his guest might become deeper and more meaningful with the time they spent together, but that was unlikely, and thankfully so, for Thranduil found the thought extremely distasteful. The more realistic outcome was that Legolas grow out of his infatuation. Such tricks of the body never lasted long, especially at Legolas' age; his son was nearly fully matured in the flesh, and when he was, would no longer be so susceptible to carnal tricks. And, as young elves were wont to do, Legolas never maintained enamorment with one of the opposite sex for long. Thranduil was aware from firsthand experience. After it was over his son might come to view Lalaith as a close friend, which still placed Thranduil at guard, but it was far better than the alternative. 

Thranduil remembered his own infatuations from when he was younger. Far,  _far_ younger. Yes, they never lasted very long and never became anything significant. Faelwen he had met when they were both fully matured.  _There is nothing to be overly concerned about,_ he reassured himself. The situation might have been slightly different from the women Legolas were previously smitten with, but no experience or evidence proved that it might become anything romantically lasting. 

Still, Thranduil wished it was not  _Lalaith,_ of all people, that his son had taken an interest in.

Said guest plucked an armguard hanging from the wall next to her and deftly strapped it onto her left arm. So she was right-handed, then?

She walked the ten meters of distance from where they stood then to the mark that indicated the farthest distance on the archery range from the target. "Are there rules to this test?" she asked. Despite the span that separated them, it was no issue for Thranduil to hear her because of his sensitive ears. And his ear's ability to detect sound had been sharpened in the wake of his impaired vision.

He stalked slowly, deliberately, towards his guest, steps echoing heavily and ominously through the area. Legolas followed with a lighter spring, looking a bit concerned as to why his father was attempting to intimidate Lalaith (his son knew him well enough to recognize that his lazy, drawn-out walking was indeed an intimidation tactic he used). Upon hearing his purposeful approach, his guest turned, her pale eyes wary. It brought Thranduil a small bit of petty satisfaction. 

"I shall leave that for you to determine."

Lalaith smiled dryly. "My lord," she said, her voice carrying a hint of irritation, "pray tell, how am I to pass this test if I am not aware of how it works? I must have assurance of the grounds on which you will judge my success or my failure. For all I know your criteria could be changed based on my performance."

So she had already deduced that he was testing her qualifications for doing something. Thranduil was not surprised with her correct guess, but he was slightly, if grudgingly, impressed. For one so young, she had good sense. If he could ascertain her loyalty... 

It was a thought that had not before occurred to Thranduil.  _If_ he could guarantee that Lalaith would be loyal to him, she could be a formidable asset indeed. His gaze turned to her with sudden, new interest, to find that she was already staring back expectantly, her pale eyes striking against her dark hair.  _Indeed,_ he thought,  _if I had an assurance of your loyalty, then you would be very useful._ But he knew not how he would be able to ascertain that genuine devotion, and he was not about to risk his son and his kingdom on just one elf. If he could not think of a way to guarantee that she would be faithful to him, then he would not linger on trying to recruit her. He could force her, on pain of death, to swear an oath to Eru All-Father as the House of Fëanor had sworn of the Silmarilli, but he had no wish to force anyone to serve him, especially not on the pain of death. Thranduil was not such a tyrant. 

He lifted his head slightly to stare down his nose at her, a calculated move of dominance. "Very well," he conceded, admitting to her logic but in truth more swayed by Legolas' hopeful stare boring into his back. He had promised his son, after all. "My expectations are quite high, Lady Lalaith. If you are able to hit each of the six the targets at a range of six-hundred-eighty-four meters, which is the distance you now stand at, then you will have passed." 

Wariness flickered in her eyes. So she was not certain if she would succeed. Good. 

"That is all?" Lalaith asked cautiously. "You will ask nothing more of me?"

"Nothing more," Thranduil promised. "When pertaining to this test, at any rate."

She nodded thoughtfully and turned back towards the target. Moving from his spot next to Thranduil, Legolas slipped ahead and closer to Lalaith, looking on in fascination as she knocked an arrow onto the string deftly. He followed his son with less haste, although frankly he was quite eager to see this.

"Be careful, Prince Legolas," the girl warned Legolas. "Do not come closer, or the arrow may catch you when it flies. It is painful and may impair my aim."

"Oh... I am sorry," Legolas sounded slightly abashed. "I will keep that in mind." 

She smiled shortly and focused on the target once more. Now Thranduil was just as engaged as his son, though for completely different reasons. Lalaith might not be certain that she could pass, but she did not seem nervous.  _That alone may speak volumes of her skill,_ he thought. 

His guest raised her bow arm and drew back the string with practiced grace and ease; clearly, she was an experienced archer. And her arms were steady and not shaking, indicative of the strength present in those slender limbs, however delicate and willowy she might look. It was no easy task to hold a bow still while aiming, he knew.

Her gaze seemed to sharpen as she aimed, focusing solely on the targets, her mind probably calculating the arrow's trajectory, its curve, its speed, all the factors that were necessary when drawing, aiming, and loosing a bow. Thranduil understood the feeling. He had experienced it firsthand many, many times before his accident. 

She released with a quiet  _twang_. Fletched with owl feathers, the arrow made no sound as it flew through the air in a graceful curve. Then there was a  _thwack_ as the head of the missile embedded itself into the target. Thranduil turned his head slightly so his non-blinded side was pointed in the target's direction; he was able to see slightly more clearly that way.

A bullseye.

Legolas' jaw dropped slightly as he stared in obvious disbelief at the bullseye, expressing the emotions that Thranduil would not allow to show on his face. From this distance she had not only hit the target, but succeeded in hitting its exact center. It might have been coincidence, but from Lalaith's lack of reaction, Thranduil doubted it was. She had aimed at the bullseye and succeeded in hitting it because of her own skill, not because of some fleeting blessing from Eru. Young, she was, but skilled. And such skill at her age required talent. 

Without a word, Lalaith moved so she was in front of the next target, though of course, a distance of six-hundred-eighty-four meters still sat between them. Legolas followed with hurried steps, Thranduil more deliberately and imperiously. If Lalaith's first shot was anything to go by she would succeed here with a fair amount of ease, and matters had a better chance of becoming somewhat... complicated. But. Should she succeed, and the likelihood that she would had just increased by a small margin, Thranduil might be able to find a window of opportunity to earn her loyalty. If he managed to do that, then Lalaith would be valuable indeed. 

Although logic told him all those things, Thranduil could not help feeling irritated at the idea of her success. Not only had he deliberately prepared a rather difficult challenge for his guest, but he could not make himself amenable towards the idea that a girl who had  _used_ Legolas' feelings might possibly be frequently in his son's company. He knew her intentions had been all for the sake of quite harmless fun, yet his blood still simmered. 

Ah, yes. And she had been attempting to get a rise out of him, he was sure.  _And she has succeeded,_ he thought in irritation. 

But he had promised his son, and he did not want Legolas to know him as a father who did not keep his word. His own father had raised him to value honor, and value it Thranduil did, although not to the same standards that one might expect. He had composed this test and its effects, and he would be the one to deal with the consequences that came his way. 

Lalaith knocked the arrow, raised her bow arm, and took aim. Thranduil observed her with a small amount of uncharacteristic trepidation, even perhaps anticipation. He was not usually so concerned over a young elf's level of skill in archery, but Lalaith's affected his son and himself. Still, he was not overly worried, or even mildly. His pulse might have increased very slightly, but he easily remained composed. Even if she did manage to hit all of the remaining targets, the matter was not quite resolved. 

_Twang. Thunk._

Another bullseye. 

Two bullseyes became three. Three became four, and four became five, and five became six, until Lady Lalaith, Legolas and Thranduil some distance behind, was standing at the far left side of the archery field instead of the far right side that the doors she had entered through were, an arrow lodged firmly in the center of all six targets standing in a row at the far end of the field. 

Thranduil would be lying if he said he was not quite surprised, and quite impressed. At her age, managing to hit the bullseye of all six targets from such a distance was indicative of either a strong aptitude for the particular skill, or considerable dedication and effort put into mastering it. 

However, he was not about to allow his son to be taught by anything less than the best of the best. Lalaith might have proved her proficiency in regards to her age, but Thranduil would only be satisfied with mastery, and not mere dexterity, when it came to the matter of a person teaching his son a new skill. And it was time that he showed Legolas an example of how to honor your word, even by means of deception. 

"Very good, Lady Lalaith," Thranduil intoned as his guest turned to him, her gaze suddenly suspicious. She had picked up a strange feeling, he sensed from her body language and stare. Whether she was intuitive or perceptive, Thranduil did not know, but it did not matter. A flicker of satisfaction made itself known in his body at the knowledge that he had managed to deceive her, if only for a short period of time. 

Legolas, standing in Thranduil's line of vision, as his son was standing closer to his guest than to Thranduil himself, gave him a queer look. His son had detected the implication in his demeanor. What it meant, Legolas naturally did not know, but his son was aware that there was some unknown game at play. Knowing that Legolas had taken notice of such details filled Thranduil with more satisfaction than duping Lalaith could have ever brought. His son was learning. Slowly but surely, Legolas was learning. Thranduil vowed that he would see to it that Legolas would, in time, know how to protect himself from any who might try to take advantage of him. 

And Legolas would know how to put those who irked him in their places, as Thranduil was about to. 

"You have passed the first stage of my assessment." 

Irritation and surprise flickered over Lalaith's visage, much to Thranduil's well-concealed satisfaction. Her expression remained valiantly neutral, but it was not difficult for one such as himself to detect the ire and consternation glimmering in her blue-grey eyes. For her age, she was quite clever, but that did not change the fact that she was a child, and it seemed that she sometimes forgot that. Being humbled once in a while had never done harm to anybody. 

"First stage?" To her credit, her voice was calm. 

Thranduil lifted his chin slightly to elevate his line of sight above her small frame even more than it was without. "Yes," he affirmed. "But Lady Lalaith, the matter for which I am testing you is of the utmost importance." She had probably guessed at this point that it concerned Legolas' desire for archery, anyway. "And I cannot afford to have any margin for error."

"You said that you would ask nothing more of me."

"I did," agreed Thranduil, "Nothing more when pertaining to this test. And 'this test' is over; you have passed it." He did not need to elaborate. Both of the young elves standing before him - Lalaith and his son - were intelligent enough to understand the rest. He locked eyes with the former, almost as a silent challenge:  _What will you do?_

A challenge? Did he truly feel the need to issue a _challenge_ to a child of her age? 

For a few heartbeats, Lalaith said nothing and held his gaze without flinching. A range of emotions surfaced and receded into the icy depths of her eyes. Thranduil managed to name only a few: more irritation, mild anger, exasperation, and-

-sadness? 

Then her stare was controlled once more, and she smiled in a wry twist of her pink lips. Thranduil, for the first time when it came to his guest, felt very slightly uncertain, affected by both the grief that he thought he had noticed from her and her cool reaction to being tricked. Had he seen incorrectly? He did not think so; he had mastered his ability to identify emotion a considerable amount of time ago, and it rarely failed him. So then, why sadness? 

 _"I have so far lived_ as _a vagabond, my lord. I find that it is tiresome, especially after the deaths of my parents."_ Yes - her parents. Lalaith claimed that they had died, and because of his mistrust towards her, Thranduil had not been willing to believe her. But this melancholy that had briefly gleamed in her gaze piqued his thoughts. And the fact that she did not seem too distraught, upset, or offended that he had deceived her suggested she was not unused to it.

Had her own parents done the same to her sometimes? Was that why she remained relatively unaffected? And was the dejection caused by her grief over their supposed deaths? Thranduil felt sympathy flicker to life within him as he stared at Lalaith, for he too, knew the pain of losing one's mother and father all too well. He, too, had experienced it, and it was not a feeling he wished on anyone. Least of all such a young elleth. She could be no older than Legolas. And how grieved would it make Thranduil feel, to see his son suffer similar heartache? His son's mother was already departed to the Halls of Mandos; should Thranduil die as well... No, he did not want to and never did consider it, for he would not die and leave Legolas subject to such shattering pain. 

Thus far he had seen Lalaith as but an impertinent child to be wary of, and had grown to dislike her for her using of Legolas' longing to learn archery. It seemed to Thranduil that she needed to learn proper respect for her elders. And only Eru could deal with her childish viciousness. Truthfully, he had found her somewhat... infuriating. Yet he had not considered that she was a child alone in the world. 

Lost still in her own thoughts, as he could judge by the distant look in her eyes, Lalaith made no move to scrutinize Thranduil again, reinforcing the abrupt suspicion that had sprung on him. She was letting her guard down, and from what he gathered so far of her, whatever she was thinking of must be truly important for her to show her vulnerability, if only by a little. The empathy became stronger in Thranduil's chest as he gazed at his guest. 

"Very well." Then her face was composed again, her wistfulness and nostalgia receding behind a veneer of calm and focus. "I will accept your loop of logic, my lord."

Before, just minutes before, Thranduil might have bristled at the phrasing of her words.  _I will accept_ \- as if she, not he, were the one in control of the situation. As if it was she who held the true power between them, as if it was she who was  _allowing_ his words to convince her. Yet no irritation flickered this time. Thranduil was thoughtful. 

Guarded and lethal and perhaps lonely, at her young age - it was an unfortunate fate that his guest was facing, and she was a mere child. An adolescent. She had suffered pain equal to his own when he had lost his mother and his father, and she had not had the privilege of spending many centuries with them. 

If there was something that did not concern his family that Thranduil allowed to affect his actions, it was the suffering of young ones, for, in his opinion, none should have to face pain at such a tender age. He spoke again, permitting some measure of the self-assured confidence to leave his tone, softening his demeanor, if only slightly. She was still, after all, the one that might teach his son the art of archery, and as much sympathy as he felt for her he was not about to allow it to cloud his judgment when it came to Lalaith. 

"Good," he declared. "The next stage of your test will, as you have likely guessed by now, be more difficult than merely shooting targets with arrows. But I shall not inform you of what it is until tomorrow, when it will occur." He raised his voice to a commanding shout as he turned his head back towards the door. "Glaewiel!" 

The elf-woman entered the range promptly, stepping through the same doors that Lalaith had entered through earlier. She bowed her head, brisk and professional as always. "Yes, my lord?" 

"Escort our lady guest back to her chambers," commanded Thranduil, then looked in Lalaith's direction once more. "I shall see you at supper, Lady Lalaith."  

From his peripheral vision he was fully aware of the annoyance simmering in his son's blue gaze. Certainly, as soon as Lalaith left the room his son would unleash a barrage of questions and indignation upon him. However, Thranduil was grateful, at least, that Legolas had the sensibility to remain silent with Lalaith in the room with them.

Then again. Said elleth glanced in Legolas' direction and no doubt spied the ire that Legolas was attempting to keep at bay. She smiled faintly, soft amusement gleaming in her gaze. 

"Of course, King Thranduil," Lalaith all but purred, curtsying and then straightening with impeccable grace. Her mother was a noblewoman? She must have taught her daughter well, for her curtsies were always refined and neatly executed. She appeared self-satisfied and somewhat smug, like some spoiled lapcat, as she strode across the arena to the door, where she followed Glaewiel out. 

 _It does not annoy me quite so much this time,_ Thranduil reflected as he stared after her thoughtfully, and perhaps a bit pityingly. 

Then, he heard his son's measured footsteps approaching and prepared himself to weather the wrath of an exasperated Legolas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It looks like Thranduil is becoming not quite so antagonistic towards Lalaith, hmmm? I tried to write him so that he balanced cold calculation with empathy, kingliness and duty with hidden kindness, and an icy demeanor with love for his son and loyalty to his realm. Thranduil has always struck me as the kind of character who's soft side isn't invoked much, and even when it is he isn't controlled by it, but it's very much there and alive nevertheless. And what a headache he must be going through, to realize that his son has a little crush on Lalaith, someone he's not even sure where to place or if he should trust. Parental protectiveness is coming into play - at least, that's what I attempted for. I hope I did decently :3  
> Thank you for reading. 
> 
> ||WORDS||  
> Noldorean elves - a clan of elves who arrived second (after the Vanyar) in Valinor following the awakening of elves near the bay of Cuiviénen; formerly led by High King Finwë, currently scattered and without kingdoms in Middle-Earth, but ruled by High King Finarfin in Valinor
> 
> Eru - the creator god in Tolkien's legendarium, omnipotent and all-powerful; creator of the Valar, the Maiar, the elves, and men
> 
> Silmarilli - the three most beautiful jewels in the history of Arda that contained the light of the Two Trees in Valinor, crafted by Fëanor; their theft, along with the murder of High King Finwë at the hands of Morgoth, resulted in the Oath of Fëanor
> 
> Fëanor - a Noldorean elf of legend, son of former High King of the Noldor, Finwë, and his first wife, Míriel Þerindë, half-brother of the former High King of the Noldor, Fingolfin, and current High King of the Noldor (in Valinor), Finarfin, whose oath of recovering his greatest creations, the Silmarilli, led directly to the ruin of his seven sons and directly or indirectly to the great deeds and great sorrows of the First Age


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, we get the same scene, but it's from Legolas' perspective this time. Remember Thranduil's suspicion that Legolas has got a small crush on Lalaith? In this chapter, it's expanded upon, and I sure did use a lot of my own firsthand experience. I'm sure we all remember what it feels like to have a crush on someone.

Legolas could not place his finger on it, but Lalaith looked… different.

She had always been beautiful; after all, in their first meeting he had foolishly thought her to be Lúthien come again (a move that still made him want to bash his head against the stony walls of his father’s stronghold when he thought about it). It was, perhaps, an objective fact.

But his heart had not quickened and thumped so insistently upon seeing her then. Surely, he had been in awe, but it did not feel like awe this time. It was a feeling softer and more pleasant, tingling over his skin like faint volts of electricity, akin to the sensations he felt when a summer storm occurred and lightning flashed in the high heavens. To accompany was an odd sort of pressure in his chest, not too choking and peculiarly satisfying, yet uncomfortable all at once.

And it seemed that all of the sudden, her every feature was leaping out at him unbidden. Her skin was like porcelain, soft and smooth and pale, and Legolas flinched away from the notion that he would like to see for himself if her flesh was as dewy as it appeared. Her long locks, of an unearthly shade blacker than black itself, were pulled messily, yet luxuriously, into a careless [ponytail](http://cfile8.uf.tistory.com/image/9938983B5AEC9B3D06A8F2), but many smaller strands had fallen loose to settle and dance about her face with each movement she made. The contrast that the sharply differing shades between her skin and her hair only served to heighten her beauty. Her lips were full and a naturally sweet yet soft shade of pink, a dash of vibrant color that stood out wonderfully from her alabaster flesh.

And her eyes – Legolas found her eyes to be the most wondrous thing of all. They were such a light, striking hue that, despite being blue, were almost grey. Haunting, even, to the point that he thought it must be akin to staring into the eyes of one of the Ainur.

And tipped with dark lashes.

Before, just _days_ before, he had not cared much to look at her figure, but despite his efforts to pull his eyes away, small, paltry traits were absorbed almost against his will into his head. And the fact that she was wearing a tunic that loosely clung to her body did not help matters. At all. Her general form was willowy, lithe, slenderer and less curvaceous than the Silvan elleths of his father’s kingdom that he was accustomed to. Long, slim limbs and an hourglass waist completed that spry figure. Her hands were small and delicate, hanging loosely at her sides at the end of graceful arms.

Legolas felt his cheeks heat up, and it was all he could do not to squirm uncomfortably. He had really just thought of such descriptive, specific thoughts about her physical appearance! One might even go so far as to call them lascivious, if heard in the wrong context!

 _Eru be damned._ His father would have leveled at him a dirty look if Legolas had spoken such out loud, but the fact of the matter was that he had not, and intense as his father was, the king was not telepathic. And the curse was quite fitting, as well, for this situation. Legolas suspected that he knew the reason for these nagging sensations, and it was a mortifying prospect.

"Very well," Lalaith’s voice sounded unfamiliarly honeyed – had her voice been so lilting, so chiming, before? – as she extended her hand towards his father, tone cool and measured. Legolas felt his stomach flutter. _He_ was nervous. "If you please,” his father’s guest continued, “Hand me that bow, my lord. I must see if it agrees with me."

As his father did so, adrenaline rushed through Legolas' veins as if a dam had broken inside of him. It was akin to a feeling in his long-ago childhood when he had formally introduced himself to his grandfather’s court. His breathing became shallower and faster, and he could hardly keep himself from pacing fretfully. He could not stop his gaze from darting this way and that, first gazing at the back of his father's tall and strong form, then at the juxtaposition of the slender and slight elleth standing in front of the king. 

Legolas fervently, _fervently,_ wished that Lalaith would pass this test. But he did not think it would be easy; indeed, he did not think it would be easy at all! It was quite a simple matter to draw a few assumptions about what the test would pertain to: the six targets at the end of the arena were obviously intended for being aimed at and hit... but from what range would his father want Lalaith to hit them? 

Knowing the king of Greenwood, it would not be an easy range at which to properly hit the target by any means. And that made Legolas anxious, his palms sweaty. He feared the sinking sensation of disappointment that would undoubtedly swamp him, heavy and burdensome, if Lalaith failed in her assessment.

If she failed, it would mean that she would not be the one to teach him. And indeed, though the idea that it might be more long decades yet until another came along that might be able to – _if_ another came along, that was – Legolas found that it was not that particular thought that bothered him quite so much as it had just a few days prior. Still stubbornly beating back the possibility nagging at his subconscious, the one he did not want to consider, he allowed himself a second to reflect, for a moment, at least, quieting the nerves eating rather mercilessly away at his body.

Come to think of it, Legolas realized, to his great embarrassment, that he had been occupied with thoughts of his father’s guest quite a lot lately. Almost too often to be considered proper, he scolded himself (not that he had not crossed _that_ line before, describing her physical form in such a blatantly… explicit manner). It had begun that night, the night that his father had ceded to him the possibility that their guest might one day soon be his tutor in what he had longed to learn for so long. His mind’s eye had been positively bombarded with pleasant possibilities.

An image of him, hitting his first bullseye, and his mentor laughing delightedly, clapping her hands in congratulations. She might saw “well done” or “very good” or something to that effect. A notion of them skipping through the underbrush and vegetation that was plentiful in his father’s kingdom, bows and quivers slung over their backs, speaking like friends and laughing amicably. Or perhaps, he had even dared stray further and imagine… she and himself sitting together in front of the merry crackling of his father’s personal hearth, rolling their eyes at each other’s annoying points – for in that particular situation they were close and knew each other intimately, as best of friends – but chortling and giggling unattractively and without reserve because of each other, as well.

Friends.

Companions.

Their first meeting had come back to him at that self-indulgent thought. He still blushed to think about how dumbstruck he had been at her beauty, but this time he was thinking more of her wry humor. _“That is wonderful,”_ said she in response to his witless comparison of her and Lúthien Tinúviel. _“I am sure Lúthien’s soul is blissful and at peace alongside Beren’s. However, sir, I would very much appreciate it if you spoke a sentence that is actually relevant to our current situation.”_

Her gaze had been teasing then, if only by a hint. And, considering it then, Legolas had realized that it had thrown him off balance. Were women not dignified and composed in front of him? There faces were serene, their manner stiff and tense and formal. No hint of emotion or sentiment flickered in their eyes or on their faces when they looked at him, and although they were silent and respectful, never did they seem to see him. He had asked his father about it, once. Thranduil had responded that it was merely a consequence of his status. And Legolas had accepted it. He was of royal blood, as much as he sometimes wished he were not, and they were his father’s subjects… and his.

But it was clear that Lalaith did not consider herself such. She did not even seem to think his status as a prince was of any note, for she smiled at him unabashedly and without hesitation, in a manner that he was not at all accustomed to. She flustered him, Legolas had realized that night; her unusually sanguine demeanor despite being in his presence flustered him. “Prince Legolas” though she might call him, she spoke the word “prince” with such little emphasis, placing almost all care in his name.

Legolas liked that. He appreciated it. She might become his close companion one day, with her sincerity and her friendliness, and he very much delighted in that prospect.

But. Was he not a little _too_ disappointed at the thought of her failing? It was not the mere, slight flush of dismay that would cloud one’s heart briefly as losing the possibility of having a friend swept through their outstretched fingers. It was something much different.

The elleth that was occupying most of his recent thoughts took the bow from his father’s hands. She held it aloft in one hand, rocking its length back and forth within the confines of her palm and looking thoughtful. Legolas had some idea of what she was doing, but her movements fascinated him nevertheless. Would he do that, too?

She then pulled the string back and released. The tightly drawn cord vibrated frantically at the release of tension, and Legolas stared at it, utterly entranced. The movements seemed to almost beckon to him.

 _Valar,_ he thought, somewhat dismayed at his own obsessive thoughts, _I sound like I am close to taking leave of my senses. I did not realize until now, with the prospect of archery so few meters in front of my nose, how desperate I am becoming._

“This will do nicely,” declared Lalaith. She turned to his father, and consequently, Legolas himself, full, pink and rather soft-looking lips curling delicately upward at the edges in the image of a courteous smile. “Will you hand me those arrows, please?”

Legolas guessed she must be speaking of one of the several quivers of arrows that sat diagonally behind himself and his father’s positions, hanging off the hooks bolted into the wall. Impatience and adrenaline (it had returned so quickly) spurring him on, he spun on his heel, practically leaped forward, grabbed one quiver off its place, and hastened to bridge the gap between himself and his father’s guest and offer her the projectiles.

It was then that Legolas realized he was as close to her as he had ever been – face-to-face, at any rate. She was shorter than he, he was suddenly aware of that fact all-to-clearly as well, the top of her head coming up to the lower half of his face. Her fine, perfectly arched eyebrows were raised slightly, expression a little surprised. The first thing he noticed was the hypnotic quality of her eyes. The second thing was how long and feathery and dark her eyelashes were, being of the same shade as her hair.

Then Legolas perceived _third_ what he ought to have perceived _first_ : how overly eager he must have appeared, all but jumping at the chance to fetch her a quiver. Embarrassed at both his actions and his too-keen awareness of every single one of her features, he lowered his gaze from her eyes to somewhere around her chin.

Then her pale pink lips curved fully into a smile. Not the delicate ones that he had often seen on her, the few times he _did_ see her, but one that engulfed her entire face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. Suddenly she did not look quite so celestial and not quite so otherworldly. Her smile made her lovely, perhaps even lovelier _,_ but not at all in that way that he had found himself associating more and more often with Lalaith. Suddenly she felt more reachable than he had ever before considered her.

 _Lalaith_ was _laughter_ in Sindarin. It was fitting, Legolas thought, feeling slightly breathless, perhaps even lightheaded, as his father’s guest thanked him sweetly. She took the quiver from him and their fingers brushed.

Legolas’ heart pounded and his flesh prickled. The skin of her hand was not quite so soft as it looked to be. Instead it was slightly calloused, presumably from her frequent practice of archery.

Only when she swung the quiver adeptly across her back with one hand and turned away did the pressure in his chest abate and he could breathe comfortably. Yet Legolas could not stop his gaze from lingering on her form. At this point he would have had to be a fool not to resign himself to the fact of the matter. He was attracted to her. This might have even been the first time he was so intensely attracted to an elleth.

Was it her beauty? Certainly she was beautiful, but… Legolas, somewhat embarrassedly, thought of his few other brief infatuations over his short lifetime. Ithilraina, with her cool, holier-than-thou attitude, had garnered his childish admiration for her haughtiness and her hard, wild beauty. Eldariel, with her distant and retrospective demeanor had fascinated him with her earthy loveliness and her lack of interest in the world and others around her. Daeanna, possessing a tight control of herself and an iron disposition, had amazed him with her self-control.

Good elleths they were all. Strong-willed, driven, and each possessing a quality of strength that had gravitated Legolas towards them. And yet… they had been of Greenwood’s culture, all of them. Perhaps their distantness initially might have awed Legolas, but it soon come to wear heavier and heavier the longer it was dealt to him. And by no means was it merely by Ithilraina, Eldariel, and Daeanna. Save for his father, it was by every ellon or elleth that Legolas had interacted with. Prince Legolas. Prince.

Prince _. Heir_.

To them, he was someone of importance. Someone whose royal blood, for strange reasons that he could not understand, exalted him and elevated him to a level that they did not believe they could ever be included in. And thus was born the aloofness, the detachment, with which they all treated him. If they ever smiled they were smiles born of duty and the sake of courtesy – and more often than not, they did not do even that. More often than not it was merely a respectful dip of the head, or a curtsey, or a bow.

But the same could not be said for Lalaith. Her parents had raised her as a wanderer of the wild? It showed, for she seemed to have no care for royalty or nobility. Even when calling his father “my lord” or referring to Legolas as “my prince”, Lalaith was not the slightest bit deferential. She spoke confidently, as if she existed on the same plane, the same level, as them. Or rather, she spoke as if _they_ existed on the same level as anyone else. In her eyes, in her demeanor, Legolas could see no reverence for royalty. Different she was indeed. And it drew his attention in the way no elleth before had.

 _Aiya! Very well done, Legolas, very finely done indeed,_ he scolded himself, flushing once more (or so his temperature felt; he could not be sure without a mirror and he was not in the habit of carrying mirrors about). _Completely decent, completely proper, completely befitting of a prince to so blatantly contemplate the latest elleth of his infatuation._ He doubted Lalaith would appreciate it, had she known. Naneth would have been scandalized. Adar would certainly be, as well.

 _Naneth._ Legolas swallowed, breathing suddenly harder than it had been a mere moment ago, and not because of Lalaith.

Said elleth stalked gracefully across the arena to come to a halt at the demarcation furthest from the first target to the far right, the indication of a distance of six-hundred-and-eighty-four from that target. “Are there rules to this test?” she inquired, not turning around. Somewhat shamefully, Legolas could not help but think how lovely her voice was.

Next to him, his father started forward. Legolas recognized that slow, haughty gait, that lack of immediate response, and he did not like it. It was the gait and the pause in conversation that his father made use of when his intention was to intimidate another, to make it apparently just who was the one with the authority and power among them in the exchange. It did not bode well that his father felt the need to spring those particular moves on Lalaith. He had long before noted that something was at play between his father and his father’s guest, but was it so grave that Thranduil was now putting intimidation tactics to use?

But then, if the matter was that serious, then why would his father be providing Lalaith with any sort of opportunity – at all – to become his mentor in archery?

What exactly _was_ it that loomed between Lalaith and his father? The circumstances, the tension, the barbed words that sparked and flew when the two of them faced each other… They all confounded Legolas. He suspected he would not receive much more clarity on the matter unless he knew specifically _what_ the issue was.

Legolas hurried after his father, resisting the compulsion to drag his hands through his hair in frustration.

“I shall leave that for you to determine,” Thranduil replied with no small degree of imperiousness. Legolas would be deceitful to say ire did not rise in him, for it did. Why in Eru’s name was his father playing the “higher-and-mightier-than-thou” card? Clearly, Lalaith was no threat to anyone, for the king would not be allowing her to take this assessment in the first place. Something that held no potential for danger, but was nevertheless important enough that his father use such methods… By the Valar, what could it possibly be?

Lalaith turned toward them, her rosy lips set in a wry twist resembling an exasperated smile. “My lord,” she said, and it was no great effort to hear the sting of the slight venom in her tone. “Pray tell, how am I to pass this test if I am not aware of how it works? I must have assurance of the grounds on which you will judge my success or my failure. For all I know –” Displeasure flashed in her icy gaze – “your criteria could be changed based on my performance.”

Slight affront rose in Legolas. Did she really think his father would go so far? Thranduil had promised him, and his father was many things, but an oathbreaker was not among them. It was his father who had taught Legolas to never go back on his word, to always treasure his honor and his integrity. He glanced expectantly at his father, who raised his chin with a mixture of easy self-confidence and haughty arrogance, something that the king had come to perfect over the years.

“Very well,” Thranduil replied, just as Legolas had thought. “My expectations are quite high, Lady Lalaith. If you are able to hit each of the six targets at a range of six-hundred-eighty-four meters, which is the distance you now stand at, then you will have passed.”

Legolas did not have experience in archery; indeed, never before had he shot an arrow in his life. But he had accessed Greenwood’s library several times in an effort to gain as much knowledge as possible, even if he must do so through secondary sources. He knew, at least roughly, what it meant to be a proficient archer. And six-hundred-eighty-four meters! That was quite a… challenge, from what he had read. It was no easy feat. Not that Legolas had ever fooled himself into thinking his father would issue an easy test, but still…

“That is all?” Her tone was noncommittal. “You will ask nothing more of me?”

Legolas stared at Lalaith, trying his hardest to find any hint of _anything,_ confidence or doubt, in her voice, but it was for naught. Her countenance was indifference personified. He was unsure of how to feel. Legolas was not so naïve as to think that she truly felt so apathetic of the matter; surely she must be thinking something, but, if she was allowing to show, it was beyond his ability to see. His gaze flickered to his father, but he could read nothing in Thranduil either. And his father’s back was turned to him. Not exactly helpful.

“Nothing more,” Thranduil assured her. _See,_ Legolas thought, relief prickling on his skin, _Adar is giving her a chance. For my sake._ It warmed his heart to see, to hear. His father finished, “When pertaining to this test, at any rate.”

 _Of course…_ Legolas battled the urge to sigh. His father was being finicky with words, as always. Of course Thranduil did not want to say something that might be twisted against him. ‘When pertaining to this test’ was the king’s very clever method of promising he would ask nothing of his guest, but if and only if it applied to the test that determined if Lalaith was a worthy teacher or not. Any other matter when it came to her, Legolas was sure, his father wanted to have control over. At least for now.

He hoped his father would come to trust Lalaith one day, and she him. For he found that the odd dance that they were engaged him stretched his nerves paper-thin.

Lalaith nodded, curt, in response, her body swiveling gracefully to face the targets once more, long fingers tightening about the girth of the bow. Spurred by an overwhelming sense of childish excitement at witnessing firsthand something that he had longed for but only been able to read about, Legolas, hardly aware of his sudden actions, lurched (and he meant _lurched_ ) forward and closed the distance between himself and his father’s guest. His gaze was pinned on her – the straightness of her form, the tensing of her muscles as she readied herself to knock, raise, aim, and fire. Eagerness pumped through his veins, intensifying as he all but drank in the sight of his father’s guest knocking the arrow.

All too suddenly, Lalaith relaxed, turning her head in his direction. Her eyes shone with amusement. “Be careful, Prince Legolas,” she cautioned him, sending his almost euphoric thrill unfolding before his eyes at the opportunity to _at last,_ experience the shooting of a bow and the flight of an arrow, screeching to a halt. He glanced at her, feeling slightly shamed, like a scolded puppy.

(Later he realized that he likely _looked_ shocked, rather like a frog or something to that effect, and desperately tried to prevent his face from turning beet red.)

“Do not come any closer,” continued Lalaith, “Or the arrow may catch you when it flies. It is painful and may impair my aim.”

She did not sound angry, merely matter-of-fact, as if she was stating an irrevocable truth (which he supposed it was). Still, Legolas could not but feel abashed. “Oh,” was all he managed to say, at first, before pushing out a hesitant, “I am sorry.” His apology yet still felt inadequate. “I will keep that in mind.”

Her response was a single smile, then she faced the targets again, demeanor calm, mayhaps even mild. There was hardly any hesitation in her movement as she raised her bow arm and aimed. Legolas watched her, entranced. She looked divine in that moment, like a Maia of Oromë come to earth to grace the realm with her presence; long, ebony locks hanging loosely from her ponytail, frosty cerulean gaze piercing the space in front of her, small frame straight and yet relaxed, bow arm held forth unyieldingly, and her other arm drawn back.

Lalaith let the arrow fly. The projectile soared through the air with all the grace and skill of a hunting bird of prey.

_Thwack._

Legolas stared at the arrow, vibrating slightly from its impact with the target. Its metal head lodged deep into wood, and Legolas thought that perhaps his wishful thinking must have projected an illusion before his eyes.

Because the arrow was in the very center of the target. Lalaith had hit a bullseye.

Legolas felt his jaw go slack, but in that moment he cared not enough to gather his wits nor his composure again. His gaze was entirely fixated on the arrow perfectly bisecting the target horizontally and vertically. She had actually done it – she had hit a bullseye from this range, a range of six-hundred-eighty-four meters.

And that was surpassing his father’s expectations! Thranduil wanted her to _hit_ the targets, not necessarily their centers, but the latter was just what Lalaith had accomplished. Admiration flooded Legolas’ body as he furtively glanced at his father’s guest. She did not even seem mildly surprised that she had hit the bullseye, which meant that it had not been simple luck.

Unless she was merely concealing her surprise. Legolas knew he was not the most perceptive elf; he could very well be misreading her or completely failing to notice things. The admiration was still there, but now it was tempered by a flood of doubt.

But! She had managed this much so far. He would remain optimistic.

Lalaith moved gracefully towards the next target, and, bound by an odd mixture of anxiety, nervousness, and hope, Legolas trailed after her. Her silver-azure gaze slipped onto him, and his heart thudded uncomfortably.

She smiled, and, by the Valar, Legolas prayed that he was not blushing.

 _I am acting like such a foolish little elfling,_ he scolded himself. _You have seen three-and-seventy summers this year, Legolas Thranduilion._ Eru, but he tired of his own completely besotted mannerisms. He ought to be able to control himself by now, but he could not stop his heart from fluttering nor his cheeks from heating when she smiled at him.

Legolas watched as Lalaith repeated her earlier actions, moving fluidly and easily knocking her second arrow, pulling back the string, and taking aim. She released the projectile and let it fly, and it soared through the air much like the first one. Legolas tracked it with his eyes, only dimly registering that his lungs burned for air – he had unintentionally begun to hold his breath. The first shot had been crucial, but this second one… if she hit a bullseye again, it meant the first had likely not been borne of mere luck, but of skill.

And that meant she was almost sure to succeed. If it was another bullseye.

_Thwack._

It was.

Heart thudding in his chest, Legolas could not stop the flow of possibilities that streamed into his mind like the great river Anduin rushing along its banks. Lalaith could pass. She _would_ pass. She would, and she would mentor him in what he had, as far back as his memory went, longed to learn. And he would master it, Legolas vowed. After all the decades that he had waited, he would most definitely master it. Even if he had not her talent, even if he had not her proficiency, he was one of the Eldar. His time was infinite. He would learn.

And Lalaith… perhaps they could be close. She was friendly and pleasant, and more importantly, casual, and he did not imagine that it would be difficult to get close to her. As a companion. As a friend. Legolas loved his father dearly, but his father was ancient, far older than he could ever understand, and the king of the realm besides. His father’s company was not the same as the company of one so near to Legolas’ own age.

A peer and a friend. It was a combination in another elf that Legolas had never before experienced, though he had attempted in the past. Once again, excitement stirred and bloomed in the pits of his stomach.

Imagine! The scenarios he had only tentatively dared imagine barely a night ago rushed back to him heedless. Hitting his first bullseye, and the delight in Lalaith’s gaze. Trotting next to her through the densely vegetated, complex paths running through Greenwood’s depths. Side-by-side in a state of relaxed contentment in front of his father’s hearth, laughing at and with each other.

He did not, and could not, permit his thoughts to go any further. Beautiful and friendly though she might be, Legolas was not inexperienced when it came to the childish fixations of his own body. It would pass, as it always had, and he would be left feeling utterly mortified that he could have ever thought such things about her. He was _already_ mortified; imagine how much more intense the feeling would be once he recovered! He shuddered to think of it.

No, he would _not_ go there. But friends. Friends sounded good. Friends sounded wonderful.

Lalaith stepped forward once more, and once more, Legolas followed. Every time she knocked, drew back, aimed, and released, he felt his throat clench with nervous anticipation and his chest clench, and every time, they dissolved into relief, like salt dissolving in hot water – for she hit the bullseye every time. Two became three, and three became four, and four became five, and five became six, and then Legolas felt triumph burst through his body, flaring outwards like a fire that had just been fed.

By the Valar, she had succeeded! She could mentor him! Legolas spun around to face his father, not quite certain what expression he was expecting. He knew that his father was not too terribly thrilled at the idea of Lalaith teaching him archery, but obviously, neither was the king completely against it. Perhaps he imagined that his father would look conflicted, or thoughtful, or pensive.

But his father was closed-off. Legolas could see nothing from him; no doubt, no consideration, no disapproval or approval. And more often than not, it indicated that his father was concealing something. Legolas’ eyes narrowed, almost involuntarily.

Why?

Why would his father feel the need to hide something?

“Very good, Lady Lalaith,” drawled Thranduil, imperious and arrogantly regal. That tactic. Again. And still, his father’s guards were up, warding off any attempt to read his emotions or guess his thoughts. Never did his father act in such ways towards Legolas. Uneasiness slithered down his spine like a treacherous serpent. Could Thranduil truly have been lying?

No! His father would not. His father was a man of honesty, reserved and cold as he was. It was Thranduil who had, in his childhood, stroked his head late at night and spoke of the gravity of forsaking one’s oaths. His father did not break his promises. _He would not break a promise he made to me._ It was true – Legolas knew it to be. Never had his father gone back on his word, and never would he. Yet he could not help but scrutinize Thranduil with concentration that unnerved even himself. For if he was so certain that his father would not break his promise, why did he feel such a gripping, burning desire to know what Thranduil was thinking at that moment?

“You have passed the first stage of my assessment.”

_The first stage._

Truly. _Truly._ His father had truly gone and done it. Anger rose in Legolas, swiftly replacing the curiosity and suspicion that he had felt mere moments earlier. Matters were clear now, and Legolas disliked it. Irritation, fury, and a sad hint of betrayal coalesced in his throat, lodging there like some unpleasant, too-large bite of cuisine, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from marching towards his father and loudly demanding an explanation.

Lalaith was in the room. She might be casual and kind, and be the object of his (brief) interests, but he did not want to seem rash and thoughtless in front of her, or anyone else.

Especially not when Lalaith herself remained so calm. “First stage?” she echoed. Though her voice was curious, it was mild and not the least bit angry, and Legolas could not help turn his head towards her in disbelief. Her gaze was on his father, cool and indifferent.

Thranduil raised his nose into the air by a slight amount more, causing Legolas’ irritation to flare sharply. There it was. There was that self-assured cockiness once again. At this point it would be no great surprise for him if he heard that the other elves feared to speak to him casually because his father insisted on acting so imperious.

“Yes,” was his father’s measured response to Lalaith’s question. “But Lady Lalaith, the matter for which I am testing you is of the utmost importance. And I cannot afford to have any margin for error.”

 _Margin for error?_ Had his father not just seen the display of skill that Lalaith had presented him with? Six bullseyes in a row from the range of six-hundred-eighty-four meters was no small feat. It was more than enough to show that she was a proficient archer, and yet his father demanded that there be no _margin for error?_

And he had not informed Legolas beforehand. No, not merely that – _more_ than that, his father had lied concerning something that he had assured would be given. Of all things, that was what rankled most.

Lalaith’s voice was yet still mild as she noted, words accusatory despite her calm demeanor. “You said you would ask nothing more of me.”

She was calmer than Legolas himself, and it had been she who had been dealt the most affront by his father; Legolas could not understand it. Should she not be furious? Certainly _he_ was angry. Was she furious and simply concealing it? Or some other factor that he was not considering?

“I did,” his impossibly brazen father agreed. Legolas briefly wondered if Thranduil could not feel his incredulous stare or was simply disregarding it. “Nothing more when pertaining to this test,” continued the king. “And ‘this test’ is over. You have passed it.”

Understanding dawned on Legolas like a bucket-full of cold water being splashed onto his face. Aiya, so that was it. His father had been twisting words to their fullest. By all technicalities it was not a _lie_ – that was the logic that Thranduil had followed. But it did not matter to Legolas. Deception was deception, and he did not like to see that his father was capable of it so blatantly.

Still, he restrained himself from speaking his mind, though it did not help that his father pointedly stared down Lalaith as if daring her to challenge him. He could not quite comprehend his father’s shamelessness in meeting her gaze in such a way. All those instances of warning Legolas to never break his word, and yet, as far as he was concerned, his father had done exactly that!

And yet, Lalaith did not seem perturbed. In fact, it appeared that she had calmed down even more, for her tone was as mellow as a relaxed feline. “Very well,” she conceded. “I will accept your loop of logic, my lord.”

“Good,” declared Legolas’ father. “The next stage of your test will, as you have likely guessed by now, be more difficult than merely shooting targets with arrows. But I shall not inform you of what it is until tomorrow, when it will occur.” He paused as his gaze moved from Lalaith to the doors behind them, and his next words were that authoritative bark that Legolas recognized well: “Glaewiel!”

The doors through which Lalaith had earlier entered now opened, and the brown-haired woman stepped inside. Brusquely, she bowed her head. “Yes, my lord?”

“Escort our lady guest back to her chambers,” Thranduil commanded. He glanced in Lalaith’s direction once more, expression veiled but not concealing his thoughtfulness. _Now_ what was it that his father was planning?

“I shall see you at supper, Lady Lalaith.” A clear dismissal. Good, because Legolas did not think he could restrain his demanding for answers much longer.

Lalaith glanced at him, but barely did Legolas acknowledge it, for he was too wrapped in his own thoughts and his own annoyance. Did his father think that his logic-leap would pacify him? If anything he was further incensed.

“Of course, King Thranduil.”

If he were not angry, Legolas might have cared and thought more about the gentle amusement in Lalaith’s voice as she sank into a refined curtsy and rose just as smoothly. As it was, he noted it but it did not linger long in his thoughts as he watched her stride away, hanging the quiver on the wall again and placing the bow against the wall on her way out. Then both she and Glaewiel slipped from the room, and Legolas turned towards his father.

Thranduil was not looking at him, rather, he was staring after Lalaith’s wake, but he turned as Legolas advanced, exasperated as he had not been in a while, and adamant on extracting an explanation from his father.

Legolas loved and respected his king and his sire, and he hoped that he would find no cause to respect him any less after today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the rather excessive physical descriptions of Lalaith. I was having trouble coming up with so many different ways myself (and I'm pretty sure it was repetitive as hell), but when I was a teenager and had similar crushes, I always found myself doing similar things as Legolas was in this chapter. I'm sorry for annoying anybody (probably everybody). 
> 
> ||WORDS||  
> Eru - the creator god in Tolkien's legendarium, omnipotent and all-powerful; creator of the Valar, the Maiar, the elves, and men
> 
> Aiya/Ai - *exclamation*
> 
> Naneth - mother (Sindarin)
> 
> Adar - father (Sindarin)
> 
> Valar - powerful and ancient archangelic beings tasked with the governance and guidance of the Children of Ilúvatar in Arda; the most powerful among them are called the Aratar
> 
> Maiar - powerful and ancient angelic beings tasked with aiding the Valar in the governance and guidance of the Children of Ilúvatar in Arda
> 
> Oromë - Vala of the hunt; one of the Aratar; brother of Nessa and husband of Vána 
> 
> Thranduilion - son of Thranduil


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lalaith returns to the guest room after passing her first test, but something unexpected occurs.

If King Thranduil was grey, overcast skies casting shadows over the grass and trees, his son Prince Legolas was a ray of sunshine.

It did not take much for Lalaith (nor would it for anyone) to figure out that the prince of Greenwood had affections for her that went beyond what would be considered proper in the context of their rather unfamiliar relationship. She did not – could not, frankly – miss the manner in which his eyes swept over her, pupils dilated, the manner in which his gaze lingered on her as she turned or walked away, when he thought she could not see him.

It made her heart skip a beat, try as she might to calm it down.

It was not like she returned the prince’s affections. In fact, Lalaith could not ascertain whether she could even label them as “affections” in the first place. Many young males had, at some point, felt attraction towards her. Their interests had ever been fleeting and temporary things, and Lalaith herself was not unfamiliar with such brief infatuations. She had been victim to them at least once in her earlier years, as well. She knew well the pounding of the heart and the fluttering of the stomach and the heating of the skin. They passed. Easily. Quickly.

But the prince of Greenwood was quite cute, adorable, even, and she could not argue with that much. Attractive he was; with his well-balanced mix of masculinity and femininity, pleasantly fair skin, flaxen hair, and blue eyes. After realizing his partiality for her, Lalaith could not help but bashfully sneak glances at his physique when they were near each other; glances and turns of the head so subtle, so minute, that she doubted even King Thranduil had taken notice.

And Legolas’ physique – it was quite . . . good. His patrol gear was rather form-fitting, and the prince still held the slenderness of youth, but he was of considerable fitness, the little of his muscles that she had involuntarily made contact with, strong and sturdy.

The thought that such a prince might be attracted to her . . . well, Lalaith found it rather endearing. Flattering, even. Still, she would not encourage his affections or insinuate that she might be interested in him. It was not fair – for herself as well as Legolas. His attentions would fade soon enough; they always did.

 _I have done it once again,_ Lalaith realized, annoyance flaring in her stomach. Labeling Legolas as a youth despite the lack of significant years between them (he might even be older than her, for _Elentári’s sake) was something she had already reminded herself to avoid doing._

But the bright light of his eyes, the hesitation, even shyness, that he displayed in the times she had seen him, coupled with his struggles to maintain a façade of indifference that came so swiftly to her when she summoned it gave her pause. He might be similar in age to her, perhaps older, but he _was_ quite innocent. Lalaith could not but question – no, indeed, she _suspected_ – that the fault was Thranduil’s.

But no matter. She found no fault in a father’s desire to shield his son, nor did she find Legolas’ youthfulness to be a thing that could be patronized. In fact, it was rather . . . charming.

Her heart thumped again.

She was fond of him, Lalaith realized. Perhaps not familiar with or affectionate towards, but . . . still, she was fond.

And then there was King Thranduil.

Fond of _him,_ she could not say she was. For he, the little she’d seen of him, anyway, was difficult to be fond of. Cold in demeanor. Haughty in temperament. And just a few minutes ago he had played her for a fool. Lalaith wondered if she ought to despise the king, but she did not. Maybe she felt a little annoyance towards him. She knew as a fact that he certainly could work on his arrogant attitude. And his tests . . . the six-hundred-eighty-four meters had been quite simple. Nothing she had not done before. In the face of her nervousness she had felt somewhat unsure, but it had passed quickly.

His next test, however, Lalaith could not be sure of. Quite obviously it would be more challenging than the one she had taken today; the king had said so himself. She could not help fear that it might be something ridiculous. Like “shoot all the leaves off of this tree”, or something of like matter. Unlike and absurd as it seemed, given Thranduil’s temperament, she could not say it was beyond the realm of possibility. The king of Greenwood was ruthlessly, _ruthlessly_ determined. And Lalaith suspected – in fact, she _knew_ – that he was far from pleased with the prospect of Legolas being in such close contact with her.

 _If that is true,_ she thought, torn between a grimace and a wicked, petty smile, _he must be doubly averse to the notion that Legolas has taken an interest in me. However brief it may be._

But.

She did not feel that he was one with any wickedness in Thranduil’s heart. Indeed, he struck her as quite noble in intention. Protective of his son, almost to a fault, really. And though Nymíriel’s own sire had never maintained such an almost _haughty_ distance with his subjects, Lord Elrond was, quite often, distant as well. He was friendly to all but close to none. Thranduil was more of “stuck-up to all (except his son, perhaps) and close to none”. But the crux was the same, nonetheless.

Lord Elrond had lost much over his long lifetime. Nymíriel, that fool, she had never recognized it, but Lalaith did now: his pain was the reason for his distance. King Thranduil was much the same. As far as she was aware he had lost his wife, his One, a cruel blow in itself, but she saw no sign of his mother or his father either. They had departed for the West of their own volition, leaving their son, or they had died. Either way, the effects would be agonizing to the king.

Lalaith might be able to guess his trauma, but she would never truly understand it – the worldview of one who had lost so much and still had so much to protect. _I would like to see him smile genuinely,_ she thought. _Too often and too long does he look cold and untouchable._ Despite her mixed feelings for the king, it made her sad. His harsh life made her sad. And she did not want to judge him too quickly.

After all, was she not worse between the two of them?

The corpse of one of the serving girls, mangled by the Warg, flashed in her mind’s eye. Lalaith flinched, trying but not quite succeeding to swallow back the short, shocked gasp that erupted from her. Glaewiel paused and glanced at her, expression bemused.

Lalaith regained her composure. “I am sorry,” she apologized quietly, hoping that she did not look too rattled.

“That . . . is alright,” the other woman forgave, though her eyes were still somewhat puzzled. Nevertheless, they continued on their way, Glaewiel leading, Lalaith following.

The serving girl’s name . . . _all_ of their names. Lalaith did not even know them. She would have closed her eyes against the wave of tears that threatened to seize her, but she dared not. She could not show vulnerability here – not yet. So she pushed back against the tide of guilt with all her might, and, thank the Valar, it subsided.

For now.

Much to her gratitude, and her relief, the walk back to the guest chamber did not seem nearly as long as the walk to the arena had been, and Lalaith realized she had quickly familiarized herself with the paths.

That was good.

She slipped back into her room with only a nod of thanks to Glaewiel, having no desire to speak to anyone at that moment. Solitude sounded heavenly, celestial. She could not get her door shut fast enough, and the sound of it locking from the outside barely affected her.

Lalaith made it to her bed before the strength left her legs. She sank down on the mattress, staring vacuously at the opposite wall.

She had been on constant guard from all that had transpired since _Lothlórien. Perhaps even since before it. The fact that those events were returning to her now . . . well, Lalaith imagined that it meant she was, unconsciously, unbeknownst to even herself, relaxing ever-so-slightly. She could not quite decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. For one, she did not want to live the rest of her life in a perpetual state of nervousness. But for another, if she was indeed thinking of those events because she was assimilating herself into her new surroundings . . . she did not imagine she could bear to think of them so often._

_Ai . . . this is difficult. If only I were not so . . ._

Lalaith dismissed the thought before it was fully formed. The path she tread on was a decision that she had made herself, and she would remain with it.

Still . . .

_No._

Quite suddenly she felt overwhelmingly exhausted. Her ability to maintain a false front was improving, but Lalaith found that it still made her feel quite tired. And the thoughts that had abruptly come to her on her walk back did not help matters in the slightest. She wanted to ease her mind. Relax her troubles. The bed seemed suddenly to be calling to her.

Although she was not weary enough to _require_ sleep, it was a honey-sweet prospect. One that Lalaith did not bother resisting. She might say she was being quite lazy, waking up and sleeping and waking up and sleeping, but she just felt so _exhausted._ She was loathe to admit it, but all that had happened had taken a toll on her.

And so, she did not resist her body’s urge to sink into the mattress and place her head in the soft pillow. Lalaith suspected that scarcely minutes had passed before her consciousness faded.

Her eyes opened, and she was standing in a forest, lain over with vaporous mist. She was barefoot, the blades of grass scrunching beneath her curling toes, the earthy texture of the dirt making itself known against the sensitive soles of her feet. Her body was clad in a [white dress](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0246/7229/products/Untitled-1_9bdc08a2-8a29-442e-8dd0-ed9d2f408821.jpg?v=1482374474), cinched together at the waist with a sash but otherwise loose, its material cool and almost wispy against her skin. Her hair was loose and free, a few dark strands stirring in the cool breeze. Cautious, Lalaith stepped forward, her bare feet silent upon the ground, as she had taught herself since childhood. Her gaze darted every-which-way, wary and wild.

Where was she? She recalled drifting into oblivion . . . was this a dream?

But if it was a dream, the sensations were disturbingly acute and intense. She could feel every brush of grass and every grain of soil and every light breeze against her skin. The leaves whispered, just as clearly and just as soothingly as they did when she knew for a fact that she was awake. She could even feel the cool dampness of the mist. It all seemed as real as could be, but no sense did that make. Lalaith knew she had been asleep in the guest chamber of Thranduil’s stronghold. How could she have ended up here? It was impossible.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a figure approaching her, naught but a vague and blurred silhouette in the fog. Lalaith’s muscles tensed as the familiar flight-or-fight instinct Nymíriel had sometimes experienced during her ventures made itself known, rising rapidly in the pit of her stomach like wine filling a wine glass. She was not prone to such hostility when meeting others, usually, but her circumstances – finding herself in the middle of a foggy, unknown forest, barefoot and unequipped properly, unable to see as clearly as she normally could – more than prevented her from acting her normal self.

As the figure advanced further, Lalaith was able to discern more details. Clearly it was a male, with fit shoulders and a built, strong frame, no curves to speak of. And he was tall. Too tall to be female (unless said female was exceptionally tall, but even so, his figure made his gender clear). The observation made her all the warier. She was far from untrained, but a male could overpower her if he was well-trained as well. Size and power had its advantages. And it forced her to rely on speed and agility, and by extension, tremendous endurance.

Endurance she was uncertain she could muster. The dress would not be a terrible inconvenience, but it was far from ideal nonetheless. But the fact that she was barefoot . . . Lalaith did not doubt that there were stones and twigs and such lying about the grass and soil, and the thought of leaping and running in such a terrain made her wince, imagining points slicing into the soles of her feet. It would most definitely hinder her.

And she was unarmed. Lalaith had no illusions, nor did she particularly care for being overly humble – she was skilled in unarmed, melee combat – but this was a man, stronger physically than she could hope to be. If he was trained thoroughly as well, then she was legitimately fearful.

As the approaching male became ever closer, she was gradually able to discern his features through the thick mist. And then terror so potent, so intense, gripped Lalaith, that she was rendered unable to move. She would have liked to, but besides her inability to take another step, so horrified was she, the expression on the man’s face told her it was already too late, that it would be pointless.

Lord Elrond’s gait sped up, seemingly by tenfold, and he strode directly up to Lalaith and dragged her against him in a desperate embrace. Despite herself, Lalaith’s heart wrenched with grief for him, and it was powerful enough to bring her out of her horror.

_Adar._

Starting, she violently flung the thought from the vestiges of her mind like a woman possessed. Never. Never would she – she could not. She _could not._

 _“_ _Nymíriel,”_ Lord Elrond breathed into her hair, his voice somewhere between a reverent whisper and a choked sob. His arms around her tightened evermore, but it was no matter. The sound of _her_ name was more than enough to earn a rise out of Lalaith. She did something in that moment that she had never before considered doing, and she was sorry for it. But there was no choice in the matter.

She pushed him back and away from her, with more force than she would have liked, but his tight embrace about her frame made it necessary if she wished to separate herself from him.

And his shocked and wounded blue gaze stared back at her.

Lalaith wanted to sink to her knees and weep. Her heart and her head were pounding, and she felt dizzy suddenly. Suddenly she was too confused, too heartbroken, too guilty, too shamefaced, to have the will to stand on her own to feet. And yet she could not tear her eyes away from that hurt stare.

 _I’m sorry,_ she wanted to sob. _I’m so sorry._

But she did not.

Should she flee? Face him? Turn him away? But he would not leave . . .

“Lord Elrond.” Somehow, _somehow,_ her voice was calm. And then Lalaith realized that her face was calm as well. Inside she might be a roiling, seething, ruinous mass of searing-hot, pained emotions, twisting and sinking and burning within her, but on the outside, she was blank.

It frightened her.

And it clearly confused Lord Elrond. He eyed her warily, though with no less – was that joy? Relief? Sorrow? She could not quite place it – tumult. And _by the Valar and by Eru All-Father_ , the hurt on his face _agonized_ her. She tried to breathe, but it felt as if her insides were being demolished by a blunt object.

“Nymíriel?” whispered Lord Elrond, and Lalaith knew not how she managed to avoid collapsing into a sobbing, shuddering wreck at his feet.

But she clung to her composure like a drowning man clinging to air, and looked at him coldly. She said nothing.

Lord Elrond stepped towards her. Just one step. Lalaith jerked back, and he froze.

“Nymíriel?” His voice was cautious, low, and still so _hurt._ Lalaith fought the urge to clench her fists in pain. _Calm,_ she told herself, _calm down – breathe. Think . . . what is best in this situation . . .?_

Her first impulse was to treat him as a stranger. Nymíriel existed no longer, and Lord Elrond was no one to Lalaith – no one but a distant relative of her mother, whom she had never before met and never before thought of.

But if she did so, if she bared her real self before Nymíriel’s father, would it not be easier for him to become familiar with her . . . with Lalaith? And that could be nothing but disadvantageous to her. She would rather she, _Lalaith_ , had no contact with Lord Elrond. None at all. And especially because she knew not how he was here. Lord Elrond was strong in magic, and it could be he who had projected their shared dream upon them. She knew not how he’d done it, or if he could do it again. Too many risks, too many ifs, too many uncertainties.

The more prudent option. To pretend she was Nymíriel. To throw him off guard. If she did so – if she convinced him that one day, she would return, then there was less of a chance that he would search for her. Or try to contact her again. And she could be gone – she could find some method to block their connection before he attempted to once more.

“Adar,” she whispered, hating the way the word _father_ slipped just so _naturally_ from between her lips. Calling Lord Elrond such just felt so _right,_ and it made Lalaith quail in disgust. No – _no._ This man, Lord Elrond, he was not her father. It should not feel so easy, so simple, to call him such. It was wrong. Untrue. Immoral. False.  

All wariness melted from his eyes the moment Lalaith uttered that word, and he was embracing her fiercely once again, clinging to her not as a parent protectively enveloped their child, but as a child desperately needed solace from their parent, his face buried in the crook of her neck and her shoulder, his hands fervently clutching at her clothes, her hair, brushing upon her skin. There was wetness at the base of her throat, and Lalaith realized Lord Elrond was crying.

And the entire situation felt just so _foreign_ that she was not sure if it was real.

“Adar,” she murmured uncomfortably, but before she could say more Lord Elrond pulled away abruptly and gathered her face in his hands, searching her all over with eyes so wild that it unnerved her. “Are you alright?” he asked, frantic. “Are you hurt, iell-nin? Anywhere? At all?”

“I am fine,” stuttered Lalaith, waving away his hands in an attempt to calm him down. “Adar, why are you here? I mean . . .” It would be best if she knew _something_ about why they were sharing such a dream – why they were facing each other again when she’d resolved to never see Lord Elrond as long as their eternal lives lasted. “ _How_ are you here?”

And Lord Elrond fell directly into her trap, Lalaith thought with a little bit of both guilt and triumph. “I . . .” the lord of Imladris stuttered, sounding more frazzled, his composure more fragile, than Lalaith or Nymíriel had ever imagined he could be. “It is a projection of a dream – unto your mind. An art I learned from Lady Galadriel in my younger years.”

Lalaith would have cursed anyone else, but Lady Galadriel had been too kind to her and she could not bring herself to do so. Still, she groaned mentally, wishing that Lord Elrond had not learned to master this particular art.

 _Had_ he truly _mastered_ it, though? She wanted to ask, but . . . it would incite suspicion in him, and that was something she wished to avoid. So instead, she just nodded, swallowing hard as one sentiment gradually made itself visible in Lord Elrond’s pale blue eyes: steel-hard anger.

“Where are you?” he asked, and although his voice was still tremulous, that familiar hint of stony firmness was not entirely undetectable to Lalaith’s ears, like ripples being made visible in the vast expanse of a lake. She fought to keep herself from flinching.

Right. Where she was.

It was not like she could tell Lord Elrond the truth. Lalaith knew Nymíriel’s father well enough to know that the second she gave him her location, he would storm from Imladris and ride straight for Greenwood, and she could absolutely _never_ have that.

Never.

And even if she gave him a false location, what would it do? Lord Elrond would discover that she had lied, and then use whatever arts he had to link their dreams once more. (Unless he could not do so for certain increments of time, or some other limitation to that effect. But still, it was not a risk she was willing to take.) Not only that, but if she lied, he would be more prone to distrust any other false location (for she was never going to be convinced to give him her true whereabouts) that she told him. Issues. Issues with every facet of lying.

But of course, telling the truth was not an option.

Then. What other option was there but to clearly, firmly communicate her intentions to Lord Elrond? She _had_ been concerned about dashing any possibility in Nymíriel’s family’s mind that she had any intention to return. This was an unexpected and less-than-ideal opportunity to do so, but an opportunity nonetheless.

She took a deep breath. It felt as if she was inhaling water into her lungs.

“Adar,” she stated, her stomach curdling nauseatingly at the word. Yet she somehow managed to sound firm. “I will not tell you that.”

“You _will.”_ Was it her imagination, or did Lord Elrond’s voice tremble? The pale blue of his eyes seemed to flicker with white-hot flame, wild and frantic . . . or was that Lalaith’s delusions as well?

Again.

The smothering. The stifling. It reminded her of his manner in Nymíriel’s younger years, that obstinate and unwilling and unmoving streak that Nymíriel had so often felt confined, trapped, under. Lalaith felt a flash of resentment that she could not stave off. A desire to protect his daughter, yes – but Nymíriel had not been a child nor a sheltered, spoilt infant. And also – _also_ – how could Lord Elrond wish to drag that fool back to Imladris? After all the harm that she had caused? Why could he not merely _let her go?_

“I will not.” The snappiness of her voice was unintentional, but it conveyed exactly how she felt about the situation anyway. Calm. She had to remain calm, elsewise, things might go south. And while Lalaith was not completely certain what that meant specifically, she did know that it was nothing good, for herself or for Lord Elrond.

 _“Nymíriel.”_ The word was not a desperate whisper this time. It was a hiss, an almost _enraged_ one. Lalaith could not help but want to tremble; never had she seen Lord Elrond so _furious._ Even when Nymíriel had constantly and consistently worn down his last nerve had he been this angry. Even when her idiocy had caused deaths and destruction in Rivendell did Lord Elrond come so unnervingly close to letting his composure go.

“You will listen to me. _This one time_ , you _will.”_ It was no delusion or imagination of hers – he was most certainly glowering at her. “Tell me where you are, Nymíriel.”

But Lalaith would not be so easily cowed. She recalled what Lady Galadriel had told her, what she had learned in Lothlórien and Greenwood – age did not always go hand-in-hand with wisdom. And Lalaith, she had weathered King Thranduil’s disdain and anger towards her as well. She was not about to surrender so lightly or so simply.

She was not about to surrender _at all._

“No.” And she had never been surer of any response. “It is not for you to know, Adar.”

She thought he might combust into flames as the Noldorean Elda Fëanáro had upon his death at the hands of Gothmog in that moment, the very Elda that Nymíriel herself had heard such riveting tales of by Lord Elrond. Lalaith shuddered despite herself as he spoke again.

“You are my daughter. Everything to do with you is for me to know, Nymíriel.”

Lalaith herself felt as if she would implode like one of Elbereth Gilthoniel’s stars. Was it so hard for him to simply _leave her alone?_ Was it so excruciating for him to simply _let her be?_ He knew she was safe, he knew she was not harmed, else she – or at least Nymíriel – would not be keeping her circumstances from him. So _why_ could he not see that everything – _everyone_ – was better off this way?

Nevertheless, gazing into his fury-stricken eyes, Lalaith realized that it was she, not Nymíriel’s father, who would have to keep her cool this time. Because he, quite clearly, would not.

It was a foreign feeling that washed over Lalaith, sweeping away her own ire. She thought of Nymíriel and Lord Elrond; the former’s petty obstinacy and foolish tantrums, the latter’s implacable patience and cold composure.

The very cold composure that seemed to be falling apart before her very eyes as she gazed at the Lord of Imladris.

He was not himself, she realized. Here, it was not he who would retain his calm. It had to be her – or things would truly become unsightly. Lalaith had no wish to cause Lord Elrond any more harm. Bitter words and aggravated emotions could only worsen the situation. She must retain a level head. She must keep her cool – _her,_ this time, and not Lord Elrond.

So Lalaith took a deep breath, forcing the volcanic tide of her ire to cool, to sink, until it was settled uncomfortably, insistently, in the back of her throat. She briefly prayed to the Valar for the strength to keep it there and not gushing out from her mouth.

“Adar,” she said slowly, gently, as if she were speaking to a volatile child. “Adar, I cannot return.” She would have paused, but his eyes flashed in a manner that told her that he was preparing to retort, and she did not know if she could control herself if he said any else. So she cut him off before he could open his mouth and speak.

“Imladris is not where I ought to be right now,” Lalaith elaborated, ignoring that the frustration and fury in Lord Elrond’s eyes intensified. “I am not finished here.” She was not quite sure what she meant by that, but she felt that it was true. Greenwood still had need of her. Legolas – she would like to see him achieve his wish to master archery utterly. Thranduil – as much as they clashed, she would like to see him smile. Truly. He was a man in pain, that much was undeniably true, and it ignited Lalaith’s sympathy.

 _“Here,”_ Elrond spat. The words were bitter and frantic and yes, still enraged. “Where is ‘here’, Nymíriel? It is not where you belong. It is not Imladris. Will you not . . .” he trailed off, and the fight seemed to drain out of him. Suddenly, Lord Elrond’s timeless face appeared to age a century. “Will you not return home?”

Lalaith swallowed. She wanted to weep. She wanted to sob. She wanted to shriek her frustration to the High Ones of Arda. _Will you not return home?_ To Elladan and Elrohir, to Arwen, to Lord Elrond, to Nymíriel’s rooms and her bed and her halls and her home and her people. To stability. To certainty.

To the families and the graves of the elflings that were now dead. To disapproval. To disgrace. To her own guilt. To _Nymíriel_. That fool. That vain, cruel, selfish, petty fool.

“I cannot.” Her voice was firm – surprisingly. “I am home, Father.” It was true. She was. For now, Greenwood the Great was where she chose to make her home. She saw potential here; a friend and a purpose as a mentor in Legolas, a figure of guidance, or at least protection, in Thranduil. And most importantly, she saw freedom. She had not seen much, but hopefully, if Glaewiel was any indication, the roles of women here differed significantly from the roles of women in Imladris.

In Greenwood, she would not have to stomach the odd stares that had followed Nymíriel wherever she walked. A princess – why would a lady, why would a daughter of Lord Elrond, behave as such? So wild, so uncontrolled, so unpredictable. So _improper._ But here . . . in Greenwood, she saw no such thing. Neither Thranduil nor Legolas, royalty born and royalty bred, were confused at the thought that a girl spent her days knocking arrows, drawing bows, and loosing arrows.

And she would not hurt anyone in Greenwood. It was too large. Too wild. A Warg? She wanted to laugh. Thranduil would never let her. The king would not even allow her free roam around his stronghold. And even if he did come to trust her, he was not her father the way Lord Elrond was Nymíriel’s. He would never allow it. Valar, she could not imagine that he would ever allow it for even _Legolas._ Greenwood was safe. And Lalaith – she was free to do what she wished, with no fear that her foolishness would ever harm anyone again.

Now, at least for right now – she belonged here.

“What foolishness – ” Lord Elrond’s voice cracked – tremulous – and despite herself, Lalaith could not _not_ flinch at the desperation on his face. “What foolishness are you spouting? Nymíriel, _what are you saying?”_

Lalaith almost shuddered. She had to avert her eyes from Lord Elrond’s face, lest she crumble from the brittleness laced in his voice, splattered on his face, like a splash of fresh red blood against soft white snow. She was hurting him. She was hurting him. _So much._ And she never thought hurting another could hurt _her_ so much as well, but it was true. Her chest was tight. Her throat felt clogged. Her head was throbbing, and she felt hot and stuffy, as if she needed to cry but would not allow herself to.

_Forgive me._

Somehow, _somehow,_ she faced him with indifference. “I am saying that I am not coming back,” she paused. “Lord Elrond. I am saying that we are through.”

She did not want to see his face. She did not want to stomach the utter ruin that she knew would sweep across that beloved visage. She did not want to have to bear the weight of her father’s devastation, the devastation that she had intentionally brought down on him.

So Nymíriel did not look at him again. _Could_ not look at him again. As she finished speaking she spun on her heel and walked away with all the speed that she could muster. Leaves and twigs crunched beneath her bare feet, and the blades of grass tickled her toes. The material of her dress brushed against her skin with every step she took. And behind her, she could feel her father’s gaze burning into her.

But Lalaith walked on.

She woke with a start and sat up in the bed. For a moment, only the sheets covering her were in her sight as she stared blankly at her lap. It took a few seconds for the dream to truly sink in.

_“I am saying that I am not coming back, Lord Elrond. I am saying that we are through.”_

Lalaith drew in a breath. Then suddenly the tears were coming, furious and relentless and unstoppable, and Lalaith found that she did not have the strength to fight them. Her shoulders trembled, and she leaned over and pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs and burying her head in her own lap.

Then she sobbed.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was...a rough chapter. I wasn't actually planning on adding a dream sequence between Lalaith and Elrond, but I got the motivation to do so from a short fic I read about Galadriel and Finarfin, her father. 
> 
> ||WORDS||  
> Aiya/Ai - *exclamation*
> 
> Valar - powerful and ancient archangelic beings tasked with the governance and guidance of the Children of Ilúvatar in Arda; the most powerful among them are called the Aratar
> 
> Eru - the creator god in Tolkien's legendarium, omnipotent and all-powerful; creator of the Valar, the Maiar, the elves, and men
> 
> Adar - father (Sindarin)
> 
> Noldorean - of the Noldor
> 
> Elda - elf
> 
> Fëanáro - mother-name of Fëanor, a Noldorean elf of legend, son of former High King of the Noldor, Finwë, and his first wife, Míriel Þerindë, half-brother of the former High King of the Noldor, Fingolfin, and current High King of the Noldor (in Valinor), Finarfin, whose oath of recovering his greatest creations, the Silmarilli, led directly to the ruin of his seven sons and directly or indirectly to the great deeds and great sorrows of the First Age
> 
> Elbereth Gilthoniel - the elvish name for Varda Elentári, the Vala most revered by the elves; one of the Aratar; creator of the stars, queen of Arda, wife of Manwë
> 
> High Ones of Arda - the Valar


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil gives Legolas the answers he is looking for, but fears his son may not like those answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Laurefindil**_ = Glorfindel
> 
> _**Ehtelion**_ = Ecthelion
> 
> _**Turukáno**_ = Turgon
> 
> _**Itarillë**_ = Idril
> 
> _**Artanis**_ = Galadriel
> 
> _**Aracáno**_ = Fingolfin
> 
> _**Arakáno**_ = Argon
> 
> _**Írissë**_ = Aredhel

Legolas demanded answers.

It would not be true to say that he was not angry. He was. Ever did he remember that his father had always counseled him to be a man that was true to his word. It was important, Thranduil had taught; not merely from a standpoint of nobility or honor, but pragmatically as well. A man true to his word – _consistently_ – was far more like to gather trust. And trust was critical.

Insofar, his father had been consistently true to his word. Never had Legolas seen him lie or break a promise. And he took pride in that. When he thought that he was able to say that his father was a man of his word, it made Legolas’ back straighten and his chin lift with pride. He was the son of such a king, and he intended to be the same.

Only now –

_Now_ he could say that no longer. Thranduil had lied. His father had lied – he had made a promise, and he’d broken it.

Legolas wondered if this new development should leave him feeling hollow, robbed of something he took a considerable amount of pride in, but he did not feel hollow. He wanted an explanation. He wanted answers.

“Adar,” he hissed. He could not remember being so furious at his father, save for perhaps a vague memory of rage in his very young childhood because his parents had quarreled, and his mother had been greatly saddened afterward by whatever Father had said to her during the argument. It had infuriated Legolas that his father could make his mother cry.

He brushed off the errant memory to focus on the task at hand. His father was looking at him, blue gaze calm and levelheaded and not at all betraying any hint of his thoughts. It certainly did not help in abating Legolas’ anger. “Please,” he ground out, “please explain yourself.”

Thranduil did not feign ignorance and ask what that, without context, vague, statement meant, which, despite Legolas’ ire, he appreciated. “I see that you are disappointed and confused,” stated the king. “And I understand.” His gaze shifted above Legolas’ head to stare at something behind him. Legolas glanced back, but nothing was there, and Thranduil’s stare was distant and contemplative. Thoughtful.

“I tell you to be a man of honor,” began his father, “I tell you to be true to your word. And in some sense, I wish for you to do so. And I wish to do so as well.”

“So why?” Legolas burst out. “I was pr–it was . . . pleasant to know you kept your promises, father.” He almost said _I was proud to know_ , but it felt far too odd, too uncomfortable, to divulge such intimate and personal details to his father. He settled for the second wording, though, to be frank – he disliked it. It did not manage to convey the sincere pride he had nursed in his chest to be the son of an honorable man. “So why did you lie?”

“Our guest shall know that I did not lie,” his father stated, confusing Legolas, “merely . . . worded my statement loosely. But you, Legolas, I will be frank with you.” Thranduil’s stare was faintly intense as his eyes returned to Legolas’ face, slightly unnerving the younger elf. “Being a ruler requires that one dishonor himself, or herself. Rulers cannot protect everyone, and their realm, if they remain true to their word at all times. There are risks in it – too many. I cannot take chances.”

“But I do not understand,” Legolas protested. “Protect? Why do you . . . who must you protect, Father? There is no danger – is there?”

Thranduil paused. “No,” he said. “There is not. Not danger, perhaps, but possibility.” The king looked away again, and seemed almost hesitant to continue. “. . . I am . . . sorry that I cannot be the honorable father you believed I was. If I could, I would, Legolas, but I cannot. That is a reality you must learn to deal with.”

Legolas stared at his feet, placed flat on the cold stone floor. His anger was gone, replaced by bewilderment and hurt. Did his father mean to tell him that rulers could never be honorable? He supposed he could see why; making promises to an enemy, for example, was perilous and could lead to one’s demise. And if a king fell, the entire realm was in danger. That part, he understood; at least, he thought he did. But . . .

“Then why?” Legolas asked. He would have looked up at his father as he spoke, but he did not think he could bear to meet Thranduil’s eyes. “Why tell me all that, for so long? Why preach to me time and time again about the importance in keeping my word, if you _must_ break it someday? Why . . .” he trailed off for a moment, not sure he could find the resolve to continue. Emotions pinged to and fro in his chest – one moment, he felt as if he could get the words out, but the next, the very thought was inconceivable.

What he wanted to say was, _“Why let me believe that you are a man who is always true to his word? Why set me up for disappointment?”_ But, struggling with himself, grappling with his emotions, Legolas found that he could not bear to utter the words. He wasn’t even sure why that was. Was he afraid of seeing the hurt in his father’s eyes? Or was he afraid of seeing _indifference?_ Was he afraid to ask his question and realize that his father did not care that he was disappointed?

Or was his inability to say what he was thinking linked to his fear of expressing just how gleeful he had felt to believe he was the son of an honorable man, who would, perhaps, grow to be just as honorable? Did he dread letting his father know just how close that pride had been to his heart?

He would never know, for Legolas let the words die on his tongue and closed his mouth, leaving the sentence hanging. Only then did he dare look up at his father.

Thranduil’s face was impassive.

Impassive.

A lump rose in Legolas’ throat, and he was caught off guard, for he did not know the cause of it. Why did he suddenly want to shed tears? He averted his eyes quickly from Thranduil, who began to speak.

“Because I wanted that for you, Legolas. A childhood in which you could believe that your honor could be maintained all throughout your life. If I had revealed what I have just revealed to you now before, I would have robbed you of that opportunity. And . . . I did not wish to do that.”

At that, Legolas looked at his father. Complex. That was all that could be said of his opinions on his father’s reasons. He understood – he could see the flow his Thranduil’s thoughts, but at the same time . . . _truly?_ He would have preferred to know the truth from the beginning and avoid being so let down. Perhaps he would have had time to digest the information, as well. Did his father not realize that? Did he think him so weak as to not be able to face reality?

“I . . . see.” Any other circumstances, and he would have winced at how formal his voice suddenly sounded, speaking to his own father. But now, he was . . . he did not know, but he could feel indignation stir somewhere deep inside him. It was rather ridiculous, frankly, considering that he could not even pinpoint a specific reason for that indignation. Legolas could not help how he felt, however, and at that moment, he felt intense displeasure.

He straightened. “I’ll be going now, Father.”

Thranduil said nothing but inclined his head in acknowledgement. That was all Legolas needed to see; in fact, if the nod had come any later he might not have even bothered to wait at all. Turning on his heel, he made haste to the door of the arena, slipped through it, and let it close behind him with a harsh clunk.

He walked away. 

**~**

Thranduil kept his composure together as the door slammed and Legolas vanished from his sight. Only then did he allow himself to turn away, his eyes falling to the stone floor beneath his feet. That did not . . . it did not go as well as he had hoped. Indeed, _he_ had surprised himself.

Thranduil’s original intention had been to explain to Legolas that words could be twisted, that yes, he had promised, but he had only meant that he would “ask nothing more of Lalaith” when it came to that particular test that she had just passed. That he had twisted his words all along, so he had never technically _broken_ his promises.

But he found that he wanted to be honest to his son, and to himself. Before he could convince himself otherwise, he had spilled the truth for Legolas. The honor that his son was so proud that his father possessed – in truth, Thranduil did not possess it. He had lied before, and he would continue lying and breaking his word. And so would his son, eventually. Thranduil wished that were not the case, but it was.

All this he could handle, but Legolas’ reaction . . . his confusion, and then his disappointment, and then his anger, much as he might try to hide it, were all more painful than Thranduil could have imagined that this talk would be. He’d always known it would come someday; an inevitability looming just behind the horizon, threatening to rise over the skyline, forcing Thranduil to confront it, one way or the other. It had never been a pleasant thought to contemplate, and Thranduil had decided, in a split second, that it would be better to tell the truth now than keep putting it off and possibly causing more discord between himself and his son later down the line.

And so he had told the truth, and he had never deceived himself into thinking that particular talk would go very smoothly. But Eru, it went worse than he imagined, and left him feeling worse than he imagined. A sudden headache descending wrathfully on him, he sat down on one of the seats of the lowest row of the spectator’s ring and propped his forehead in one of his hands, fighting back a wince. If one of his people walked in at that moment, they would have met with an odd sight: the king who took so much care to appear untouchable and regal sitting in a slumped position on the not-too-comfortable benches of the spectator’s ring, head in his hands.

Thranduil sighed. It seemed that no matter how old he got, he could yet be surprised, even by familial or seemingly mundane matters; after all, all parents experienced such troubles with their children.

Or did they? Was it only him? Was something wrong with _him_?

It was not the first time Thranduil had grappled with such a question, and, by now, he knew better than to expect it to be the last. A sigh burst from him, almost instinctively. Eru. He had endured much and more, but being a parent . . . a trait so commonplace and ordinary, countless among elves, Dwarves, and the Secondborn, was also one of the most complicated and difficult things he had experienced.

Legolas’ feelings had very obviously suffered with their conversation, and neither was Thranduil unscathed. Not only because his son was displeased, but because Thranduil had _lied_ even as he tried to be truthful. He had told his son that the reason he’d not told him sooner of the taint caused by life was that he wanted his son to have a childhood wherein he could believe that honor could always be maintained. Yet – that had been a falsehood. It was not so much that he was trying to spare Legolas’ feelings, but rather that he was trying to spare his own.

For Thranduil dreaded seeing the disappointment in his son’s eyes should he find out the truth: that his father was not so honorable after all. He wanted . . . if nothing else – though he had failed to save his mother, failed to save his father, failed to save Faelwen – if nothing else, he wanted to be a father that his son could be proud of. A father that his son could admire. And he was loathe to admit it, but that dream seemed further and further away every day.

He straightened, headache abated slightly, wondering what he ought to do. He could follow his son and attempt to explain things more clearly, but . . . he did not think Legolas wanted to see him right now. And more than that, Thranduil realized he was afraid – actually _afraid_ – of facing that look on his son’s face again. Better to allow himself and Legolas some time and space to calm themselves.

It might be unwise, but he turned his thoughts from his son for the time being and instead sifted mentally through the reports he had received from his scouts this morning. The kingdom was well-fed; the hunting and gathering was fruitful, and the little planting that went on inside the borders of Greenwood were looking healthy as well. There were no signs of any stray orcs, or any servant of the dark that might be lurking about. He had earlier visited the training grounds, and all the soldiers were doing well; he saw no one that was particularly lacking.

Although – he glanced at the archery field, long unused until Lalaith had come. In truth, the people of Greenwood did not use archery often. In such a dense forest, the tangle of tree boughs, leaves, bushes, and the like, left very little option for long-ranged fighting. His father had made sure to have an archery field built after migrating to Greenwood following the fall of Doriath, but over the centuries its use had dwindled and then stopped completely. The bows and arrows had lain without use for years upon years.

Speaking of Lalaith . . . annoyance flared in Thranduil as his thoughts settled on his guest. He had forgotten, or rather, he hadn’t been considering it, but it was because of her that Legolas’ wish to learn archery had reached such heights.  By extension, it was because of her that he had Legolas had even had the need to have their previous conversation. Suddenly, the thought of Lalaith was quite a bit more unpleasant than it had been just a few minutes ago.

By now, she should be back in the guest chambers. Now that he thought about it, Thranduil realized that he had never confronted Lalaith in her rooms. He wondered if he ought to; it was a tactic that certainly couldn’t hurt in the mind game they were playing – giving the implication that nowhere, not even the privacy of her rooms was safe from his presence. And he had allowed her to stay in those rooms anyway. It might unsettle her or it might do nothing to affect her, but either way, it could do no _harm_.

Frankly, he was angry at her, Thranduil realized. Angry that she had resulted in this rift between himself and his son. Angry at her in the knowledge that if she had not come, this would not have happened. His irritation growing by the moment, Thranduil stood and swept swiftly out of the archery range, his feet carrying him toward the guest chambers where Lalaith had made her residence in his stronghold.

He was crossing the hallway between the armory and the arena when a woman’s voice called out, “My king!” and Thranduil turned his head to be greeted with Ristadis, a captain of his Woodland Guard. Strands of her honey-blonde hair were falling from their usual pristine ponytail and clumping around her face and neck, making Thranduil suspect that something was amiss and was causing her considerable distress.

“What is the matter?” he questioned as Ristadis closed the distance between them, coming to a stop about two feet before him and briskly bowing her head (prompting more hair to fall out of its usual neat style). When she looked up again, her pale green eyes betrayed her frazzled state of mind, as if her hair’s state of disarray did not give it away already.

Despite that, she did not look overly _worried,_ Thranduil noticed, just . . . somewhat frenzied. He looked her up and down, considering, as she began to speak.  

“There is a problem with our water system, my king,” Ristadis informed him. “The Fountain of Melian, Thingol’s Brook, and Lúthien’s Spring are not working properly, along with several other pools and pipes.”

Thranduil determinedly ignored the rising urge to swear colorfully at the news. While he was relieved that nothing particularly serious had happened – an issue with the water system could easily be fixed once the problem was identified – he was not, currently, in the best of moods and did not want to have to deal with such things. But he was king, and it was only right that he participated in the fixing of every problem that presented itself to his realm, even minor ones. And Thranduil did not like to think that he could sit idly by while his people alone worked to remedy issues.  

“I see,” he acknowledged. “Has the problem been identified?”

“Not yet, my lord.”

“Has the location of the problem been pinpointed?”

“We are attempting that now, my lord.”

“How much progress has been made in that regard?”

“It has at least been determined that the problem is somewhere near the Foyer of Cúthalion, my lord.”

“We must go, then.” Thranduil swept off in the direction of the foyer, soothing his ire at his guest for the time being. After this problem was dealt with, there would be ample time to confront her.

**~**

Imladris was just as beautiful as he recalled, yet Laurefindil’s brow furrowed as he beheld it in the distance. Even from this far away, he felt that something about Elrond’s abode was greyed, muted. Sauron was defeated – had been defeated for a long time, so that could not be the issue. Perhaps a problem from within was souring Imladris?

_Just as well that I am headed there now,_ Laurefindil thought.

He traveled through the cliffs leading to the path into Imladris, slightly tensed from being surrounded by rocky faces and steep precipices. His battle with the Balrog was all-too-clear in his mind – the sheer size and malice and the _flame_ of the Balrog, and the mounting terror that had built in his stomach as it screeched at him – the pure _shock_ of feeling those clawed hands tangle in his hair and jerk him down, down, _down_ , so quick that he had not the time to comprehend what was happening until the ground was rushing up to meet him, his death inevitable, inescapable – staring him right in the face. Despite the thousands of years that had passed, Laurefindil didn’t believe he had ever managed to conquer the perpetual nervousness that he now felt traveling mountainous regions.

He suspected that Ehtelion felt the same about deep water. His friend never did admit it outright, but Laurefindil did not fail to notice the unease in those dark blue eyes when they strode by a large body of water (there was no scarcity of them in Aman, after all). Given that Ehtelion had drowned in Gondolin’s fountain, Laurefindil found that he had been quite unsurprised by his friend’s aversion.

Just as Ehtelion seemed aware of Laurefindil’s dislike of steep cliffs with sheer drops. Precisely the kind of environment he was navigating now.

Ignoring the unsettled flopping of his stomach, Laurefindil managed to cross through the mountainous regions surrounding Imladris, striding under the familiar natural archway formed by the overhanging cliffs and onto the path that led to the gates of the elven city. The guards’ gazes rose to meet him as he neared, absorbing his weapons (a sword and a dagger) and wear (a cream-white tunic, loosely-fitting white trousers, beige travel boots, and a brown cloak), and they stepped forward to block the path leading into Imladris – not that it was, to say, necessary, Laurefindil thought, since the gates were already closed.

“You are?” the guard to the right asked briskly, not with any hostility, as Laurefindil stopped roughly four feet away from them. He did not miss their eyes on his sword and his dagger, both hanging from his belt.

“Glorfindel,” Laurefindil supplied the guards with his Sindarin name, the one he was ironically most commonly known by. It was not even his birth name, by Elbereth’s stars. But then, it was not particularly odd, since Quenya was not oft spoken in Middle Earth any longer.

The name made the guards blanch, as expected. They must be quite young, Laurefindil thought, for the older inhabitants of Imladris were aware of his sporadic visits to Elrond’s city, while the younger ones had presumably only heard tell.

To the guards’ credit, they retained their composure despite their surprise, and Laurefindil politely did not mention their curious, almost suspicious, eyeing of his long golden hair that was so famed in tales and songs. “ _Glorfindel_?” repeated the guard to the left. “I apologize, friend, but that is a bold claim.”

“A true one, nevertheless,” replied Laurefindil.

“We . . . we will require confirmation from . . . someone,” the guard to the right muttered, visibly still fighting through shock in comparison to his partner, who had gathered himself more quickly.

“Then please,” Laurefindil waved his hand idly, hiding his amusement, “do go on and receive it.”

The guards hesitated, clearly reluctant to act. If one of them went into the city to ask for help in confirming Laurefindil’s identity, then the other would be left alone against a stranger, who possibly bore ill will. On the other hand, if they shouted for help in receiving their confirmation, they were likely to earn odd stares for claiming that Glorfindel was at their gates.

Pitying their predicament, Laurefindil was about to offer to hand over his weapons and ask if the guards wished to search him for further confirmation of his harmlessness, if it meant assisting them in their torn state, when his eye was caught by a figure making their way across Imladris’ outer plaza. Tall and lean with dark brown hair and eyes, the ellon was someone Laurefindil recalled seeing during his last visit to Imladris – someone he was familiar with.

“Erestor!” he called, hoping the elf could hear him (although the probability that he could not was impossibly low). Erestor’s head turned in the direction of the gate, and their gazes met, much to Laurefindil’s triumph. The guards panned him with quizzical stares as Erestor hurried towards the gate, but Laurefindil paid them no mind.

It was pleasant to see Erestor again. The Noldorin elf was younger than him, barely a child old enough to walk when Gondolin fell to Morgoth, and distant kin to Turukáno. Truthfully Laurefindil had not known much of the younger elf when he died, but he and Erestor had become acquainted in the late Second Age, during the struggle against Sauron. He considered Erestor a friend, a sentiment that he hoped the calm and serious Erestor returned.

“Glorfindel, it’s been some time,” commented Erestor as he reached the gate, peering through the bars at Laurefindil. The Noldorin elf appeared unchanged by time, not that it was unusual. It had been some four decades since they had last seen each other, and the Eldar did not change much over forty years.

“Indeed,” Laurefindil sighed. “Pity that some time was not longer.”

Erestor’s deadpan expression did not change despite the rolling of his dark eyes. “So wonderful to see you as well,” he snorted.

Seeing the interaction and realizing that Laurefindil was indeed Glorfindel, the guards promptly pulled open the gates, offering Laurefindil his passage directly into Imladris. He thanked the guards and made his way inside, deliberately ignoring Erestor, who, unaffected, fell into step beside him.

“What has happened here?” Laurefindil asked his friend, serious once again as he noted the subdued atmosphere of Imladris as compared to his previous visit.

“I thought you might have noticed something was amiss,” Erestor admitted. “Truthfully, Glorfindel, the city is feeling rather downcast. The news is spread all about Imladris.” He paused to absorb Laurefindil’s expectant gaze. “Lady Nymíriel has disappeared.”

Laurefindil turned fully to Erestor, suddenly feeling grave. Nymíriel was gone?

He recalled Nymíriel, of course. She had been but a little child the last time he saw her, but he most certainly did recall her. A bold contrast to her courteous twin sister, but that contrast had been pleasant in its own way. Arwen’s shy, quiet politeness had been reminiscent of Itarillë when she was a child (in Aman, so very long ago), while Nymíriel’s confident exuberance and charming way with strangers (for example, Laurefindil himself, when he first met her) had struck him to be more similar to a younger Artanis.

_Laurefindil wrung his hair firmly, watching as bright, clear droplets of spring water fell from the tips of his locks – a darker golden-brown from being soaked – back into the rushing stream. The coolness of his damp, loose linen shirt and trousers was one he felt with pleasant acuity on his flesh; the weather was rather hot during these times, and he was always appreciative of a good soak in the clear waters of Imladris’ streams._

_Still wringing his hair, Laurefindil indulged himself and took a seat on the bank next to the brook, positioning himself so his feet and ankles remained submerged in the cool water. He closed his eyes and let out a contented sigh, for it had been long since he had felt so relaxed. When he had last been in Middle Earth it had been a place of terror and darkness, Sauron’s chokehold on the lands growing ever stronger and stronger. Now it was once more the place of exploration and adventure that it had seemed so long ago, when Laurefindil had crossed the_ _Helcaraxë with Lord_ _Aracáno, Lord Turukáno, Lord_ _Arakáno (the second, named for his father),_ _Lady Írissë, Ehtelion_ _,_ _Elenw _ë_ , and Itarillë. _

_Ah, his sister – Laurefindil shuddered to recall Lord Turukáno’s howl as Elenwë fell from the icy cliffs, her body lost to even elven sight as she hurtled down the sides of the glaciers at terrifying speed. He shuddered to recall the cold, brutal, numb shock that slowly seeped through his pores as he stared blankly at the spot that his sister had_ _only just_ _been standing but seconds ago. Suddenly, the chill, despite the heat, was not so pleasant as the same dreadful iciness began crawling through Laurefindil at the thought of his sister’s demise._

_A sudden slap of ice-cold water to his face left Laurefindil spluttering in surprise, snatching him out of his past recollections. Wiping at his eyes and groaning inwardly at the realization that a wet sleeve did not do much against water on one’s skin, he nevertheless struggled to crack his eyelids open and peer at his assaulter. His efforts were rewarded with the glimpse of large, long-lashed eyes as pale as morning mist._

_Managing to dry his eyes enough to open them fully, Laurefindil took a better look at the eyes and their owner; a young girl with long, loose, blacker-than-black hair and pale skin that made for a sharp contrast. She was standing in the brook, her hair wet and her little dark blue tunic and black trousers damp. Her pale eyes – the lightest shade of clear blue, he realized – were curious as they gazed at him. Her presence in the Spring of Celebrindal told Laurefindil that she was of Imladris’ gentry class. He wondered what the identity of her parents might be._

_“Who are you?” The girl’s voice was chiming and crystal clear, its childish purity reminding Laurefindil of Itarillë’s when his niece was this girl’s age. “I have never seen you around Imladris before,” she commented._

_Laurefindil smiled, the sight of the child warming him. Her innocence in approaching strangers was refreshing, but then, living in a protected city such as Imladris, he supposed that she might not have any reason to be suspicious._

_“I,” he began carefully, “am a mere traveler. I do not often find Imladris to be my destination, but today I have.”_

_The girl eyed him suspiciously. “But that does not make sense,” she pointed out. “The Spring of Celebrindal is for those of high esteem only, my father says. You do not seem as such.”_

_Laurefindil gasped, feigning hurt and secretly amused at her bluntness. “The lady judges me so soon?” he groaned in mock distress, clutching a hand to his heart, falling backwards as if he had been dealt a blow. “I am wounded.”_

_“I only speak the truth.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. “And my mother I should not trust what strangers say.”_

_“Yet you speak to me anyway,” he noted, giving up on his wounded act and straightening as he fixed the child with his gaze. “Do you listen not to your mother, my lady?”_

_“I do,” she pouted, offended in the lighthearted way that only a child could be. “I do, but only when it seems necessary.”_

_“And does it not at this moment?”_

_She shook her head. “I think you are kind enough to speak to, traveler.”_

_Laurefindil smiled. “The lady is generous, to trust me so,” he declared. “And what, pray tell, were you doing in the Spring of Celebrindal before deciding to splash my innocent, wronged face with water?”_

_“I was searching for seashells,” the girl told him. “Real seashells do not exist in Imladris, of course, so far from the sea, but my father tells me that the artisans fashion fake ones in their image and place them in the brooks, springs, and fountains.” She held out her hand, where a silvery-white seashell gleamed in her palm, but its too-perfect smoothness told Laurefindil that it was not a real one, as the girl had said._

_“It is very pretty,” he praised. “A good find.”_

_The girl’s gaze was somewhat forlorn as she stared at the fake seashell. “But it isn’t real.” Her voice sounded wistful. “I would like to see a real seashell someday.”_

_“Well,” Laurefindil started slowly, weighing the words in his head before he spoke them aloud. “Real seashells are not nearly as beautiful as the one you have in your hand, my lady.”_

_Now her stare was fascinated as she raised her head to look at him. “Really?” she asked. “Why is that so?”_

_Before Laurefindil could respond, someone appeared through the archway leading to the Spring of Celebrindal, calling out for “Nymíriel”. The girl Laurefindil was conversing with spun around and climbed out of the water. She ran towards the figure, who Laurefindil recognized to be Elrond. His brows arched in surprise._

_“Adar!” the girl, whose name he now knew to be Nymíriel, called as Elrond approached. The Lord of Imladris knelt in front of her, brushing strands of the girl’s wet black hair from her face as Laurefindil looked on, amused at the twist of chance. So that was the identity of her parents; she was the daughter of Elrond and Celebrían. Valar, he would never have guessed that he had, by chance, wandered upon one of Elrond’s daughters._

That means she is kin to me, _Laurefindil thought. His eyes softened as they settled on the girl._

_“There you are, Nymíriel,” Elrond said, kissing his daughter’s forehead with the tenderness that only a parent could have. “Hurry along, your mother and siblings are waiting. We have been looking for you.”_

_“Oh . . . I am sorry.” Nymíriel dipped her head and glanced back at Laurefindil. “But before I leave, Adar, have you ever met Findlaus?”_

_Laurefindil smiled at the child’s label. ‘Findlaus’ – ‘fair-hair’ in Sindarin. Given that both Laurefindil and Glorfindel were based off of his hair, he could not be surprised that Nymíriel’s nickname for him was, as well. He glanced at the locks slung over his shoulder, gradually becoming golden once more as they dried._ Valar, _he thought, amused,_ where and who in _Eä_ might I be without the hair that I am so often named for?

_Elrond glanced at Laurefindil, his clear blue eyes betraying nothing, before looking back down at his daughter. “Yes,” the Lord of Imladris admitted, and it made Laurefindil smile to see the childish wonder in Nymíriel’s eyes. “I will tell you of it another time, so go on.” Elrond nodded towards the exit. “Your mother is waiting.”_

_“Yes,” Nymíriel said obediently, bringing herself out of her stupor. “Goodbye, Findlaus,” she called to him, waving her small hand. Laurefindil waved in response, fondness pooling in his chest. The girl was the blood of his sister, Elenwë, his niece, Itarillë, his grand-nephew, Eärendil – and Elrond, his great-grand-nephew. And she was a great deal alike to Artanis when Artanis was a young girl. “Goodbye, Nymíriel,” he called back. Watching her turn and run for the exit, he suddenly felt the weight of every one of his years piling onto his shoulders. It was not strictly an unpleasant feeling, just one he was not accustomed to._

_Nymíriel hurried through the archway, disappearing from sight, and Laurefindil turned to Elrond. “_ _Eärendilion,” he greeted, bowing his head in a show of respect for the lord. Strange to think that said lord was his great-grand-nephew. “It has been since the Second Age.”_

_“Indeed, it has.” Elrond bowed his head back, and although Laurefindil was not surprised by the lord’s politeness, it did please him as it would have pleased Itarillë. She had always hated the formalities that came with being the daughter of the king of Gondolin, who was also a prince of the Noldor, and had preferred to treat others with equal respect regardless of their class. That was not to say that the other nobles were smug or self-important, but they seemed not to think much of the bowing and curtsying that occurred wherever they went; bowing and curtsying that they seldom returned. Laurefindil himself had been guilty of this. As lord of the House of the Golden Flower, he had never paused to consider that perhaps those below him in rank gave him more respect than he gave them. It was not until he saw Itarillë returning the respects given to her by curtsying in response that he began to notice._

_Elrond did not try to hide the worry in his gaze. “The Valar have sent you back once more,” he commented. “Is there a reason for that? Does the darkness threaten us again?”_

_“I do not believe so,” Laurefindil assured. “If I am truthful, lord, I am not certain why the Valar sent me back to Middle-Earth. For the time being I content myself with taking joy in how peaceful it has become after the defeat of Sauron.”_

_“Walk with me,” Elrond invited, his tone polite. Laurefindil was not friends with the Lord of Imladris, but they had learned to trust each other quite deeply after fighting against Sauron side by side. He readily accepted, falling into steep next to Elrond. As they made their way towards the exit, Laurefindil could not help but notice the little footprints on the stone, left in Nymíriel’s wake. He noticed Elrond looking down at them as well. It almost appeared that the Lord of Imladris was following a trail set by his child._

Laurefindil glanced ahead to where Elrond’s keep was visible, rising tall above the rest of Imladris. Nymíriel was missing – and Elrond . . . he did not dare imagine what Elrond’s state of mind might be now. “Valar,” he muttered. “Oh, Valar. Erestor, do you have any inkling of why she might have vanished?”

“As far as I am aware, no.” The worry in Erestor’s voice was palpable. Laurefindil knew that Erestor was high in Elrond’s councils as well, and that his friend cared about the son of Eärendil more than his usually nonchalant demeanor cared to admit. And Nymíriel . . . what could possibly have happened that she had vanished? Could she be kidnapped? But Laurefindil found the notion astonishingly hard to believe. Imladris was a haven for the Eldar – a place of safety and peace. None who entered here bore ill will. And even if they did, it was no simple feat to kidnap the lord’s daughter. In fact, it was nearly impossible, if not _outright_ impossible.  

But then, had Nymíriel run off of her own accord? Why? The situation was utterly baffling, and if that were not bad enough, sickening. Laurefindil had only encountered Nymíriel when she was a child, yet he had grown quickly fond of her and harbored that fondness to this day. She was kin, after all, and even if she were not, she was a lovely child, friendly and accepting.

“By the Allfather’s name . . . ” Laurefindil lengthened his previously casual stride, Erestor following suit in order to keep up with him. “Has Elrond spoken to you about Lady Nymíriel’s disappearance?”

“He did personally inform me that she had vanished, but apart from that, no.” Laurefindil could not remember Erestor ever sounding so grave – so distressed. Even when the battle against Sauron had been looming on the horizon had his friend been so worried. It made him wonder if Erestor had personally known Lady Nymíriel, as well.

“I was her tutor,” Erestor admitted, as if reading Laurefindil’s mind. “I taught her the history of Middle Earth and the peoples of Arda.”

“Ah.” So that was it.

“Do you know if Elrond is in his keep?” Laurefindil asked his friend. “I would see him. Immediately.” Normally he would have been more relaxed, given himself more time to appreciate the beauty of this haven for the Eldar, but with the news of Nymíriel’s disappearance, all mood to idle had evaporated like morning mist in the afternoon sun. He wanted to speak to Elrond, and he was going to now.

“I believe he is,” Erestor replied.

_Good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ||WORDS||  
>  _ **Adar**_ \- father (Sindarin)
> 
> _**Eru**_ \- the creator god in Tolkien's legendarium, omnipotent and all-powerful; creator of the Valar, the Maiar, the elves, and men
> 
> _**Doriath**_ \- a powerful elven kingdom that stood during the First Age, ruled by Elu Thingol, one of the earliest elves, and his wife Melian, a Maia; the original home of Oropher, Thranduil's father; fell to an attack by the Sons of Fëanor 
> 
> _**Melian**_ \- a Maia who served the Valar Vána and Estël fell in love with and married the elven-king Elu Thingol; Queen of Doriath; mother of Lúthien
> 
> _**(Elu) Thingol**_ \- originally known as Elwë Singollo; brother of Olwë, the king of the Teleri in Valinor; King of Doriath; father of Lúthien
> 
> _**Lúthien**_ \- the half-elf, half-Maia daughter of Elu Thingol and Melian; princess of Doriath; maternal great-grandmother of Elrond
> 
> _**Glorfindel**_ \- an ancient elf born in Valinor who traveled across the Helcaraxë with Fingolfin's people; a lord of Gondolin; died fighting a Balrog to save the escapees of Gondolin after its fall; re-embodied as an emissary for the Valar
> 
> _**Ecthelion**_ \- a lord of Gondolin; died fighting the Lord of Balrogs, Gothmog, during the sack of Gondolin
> 
> _**Gondolin**_ \- an ancient elvish city built by Turgon that stood during the First Age, serving as a safe haven for the Eldar against Morgoth; fell to Morgoth's forces after inner treachery
> 
> _**Elbereth**_ \- the elvish name for Varda Elentári, the Vala most revered by the elves; one of the Aratar; creator of the stars, queen of Arda, wife of Manwë
> 
> _**Quenya**_ \- an elvish language used by the elves in Valinor; initially used by the rebelling Noldor as they crossed into Middle-Earth but eventually became less used
> 
> _**Erestor**_ \- a kinsman of Elrond
> 
> _**Noldorin**_ \- of the Noldor 
> 
> _**Helcaraxë**_ \- the "Grinding Ice", a perilous icy wasteland lying between Valinor and Middle-Earth; crossed by Fingolfin's people after Fëanor broke his promise to send back ships for them and instead burned said ships
> 
> _**Fingolfin**_ \- younger half-brother of Fëanor and older full-brother of Finarfin; second son of former High King of the Noldor, Finwë, and first son by Finwë's second wife, Indis; father of Fingon, Turgon, Argon, and Aredhel; former High King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth; died in one-on-one combat against Morgoth
> 
> _**Turgon**_ \- a son of Fingolfin and brother of Fingon, Aredhel, and Argon; the king of Gondolin; the father of Idril Celebrindal; paternal great-grandfather of Elrond; perished in the Fall of Gondolin
> 
> _**Argon**_ \- a son of Fingolfin and brother of Fingon, Turgon, and Aredhel; perished during the Battle of the Lammoth
> 
> _**Aredhel**_ \- only daughter of Fingolfin and sister of Fingon, Turgon, and Argon; kidnapped and wed by the Dark Elf Eöl; mother of Maeglin, whose treachery would eventually lead to the Fall of Gondolin; perished in a fit of rage from her husband
> 
> _**Elenwë**_ \- wife of Turgon and mother of Idril Celebrindal; perished during the crossing of the Helcaraxë 
> 
> _**Idril (Celebrindal)**_ \- the daughter of Turgon and Elenwë; princess of Gondolin; wife of the human man Tuor; mother of Eärendil; paternal grandmother of Elrond; desired by her cousin Maeglin, who was motivated by said desire to betray Gondolin to Melkor
> 
> _**Valar**_ \- powerful and ancient archangelic beings tasked with the governance and guidance of the Children of Ilúvatar in Arda; the most powerful among them are called the Aratar
> 
> _**Eä**_ \- the term for the entire star system of Tolkien's universe; created by Eru Ilúvatar 
> 
> _**Eärendilion**_ \- son of Eärendil 
> 
> _**Eärendil**_ \- half-elven son of Tuor and Idril; husband of Elwing; father of Elrond and Elros


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having finished with the day's shenanigans, Thranduil moves off to confront the source of his frustration. While he's at it, something he wasn't prepared for occurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, this chapter was supposed to be a lot longer; I was going to include Lalaith's perspective on its events as well. But that ended up being too long, so I decided to split the chapter into two parts. Here's the first, in Thranduil's perspective.
> 
> _**Warnings:**_ Slight mentions of suicide

In his heart of hearts, Thranduil felt a bit sorry for his guest.

After all, it was not everyday that someone taking residence in his stronghold found the force of his personal ire towards them combined with the moodiness that came with a stressful day directed at them. Even rarer was it for a guest to be subject to such irritation. Actually, Thranduil could not remember such a thing _ever_ happening. He had been irritated at guests before, of course, especially since his father had made the kingdom’s borders considerably more open to travel. But he had never helped in dealing with a stubborn problem (for the trouble in the water system had been quite obstinate) while bearing pre-disposed irritation at a guest, and, well . . . frustration did a great deal in helping irritation rise.

_This is a first time for both of us, Lalaith,_ he thought acridly as he marched up the stairs to the guest tower where the guest chambers had been built. Truthfully, some part of Thranduil was aware that he was being unfair. After all, Lalaith could not have possibly known about the . . . unspoken (recently become spoken, of course: the matter of honor and rulers) that had been laying between him and his son, and therefore could not have been intending to use that to create a rift between them. Her manipulation was unintentional, completely a circumstantial accident, and yet that made her presence in Thranduil’s halls all the more aggravating.

_Unintentional._ She’d opened this sensitive topic between Thranduil and his son _unintentionally._ There was no malice behind her actions, yet she was causing such damage. She had breached a matter that Thranduil had purposefully been avoiding for quite some time, and she had done it without trying to. This was his home, his house, his stronghold, and he deeply disliked anyone interfering with it.

Lalaith did not entirely deserve his wrath, but . . . she w _as_ becoming a bit self-assured, her demeanor too casual, her mannerisms too relaxed. Thranduil should remind her that she was still a guest in _his_ domain. Despite her feistiness, she held no real power here, and he felt that it would be a pragmatic measure to bring that back to her attention. She seemed to have forgotten it.

Thranduil’s ire, by nature, was not explosive. It was controlled, calm, and simmered. Never had he been one to erupt at the object of his anger, spending all his fire in one simple spout. His anger came consistently, gradually, and crept closer to its victim, enveloping them in a thin sheen of rage. The impact was not as abrupt as that of the snappish expulsion of red-hot rage, but it did last longer.

Much longer.

And it was boiling by the time Thranduil’s steps brought him to the depths of the guest tower in which his current guest had taken up occupation. Fueled by his annoyance, his feet were quick but heavy on the ground, the soles of his boots slapping against the stone floor and creating very distinct sounds of footsteps that Thranduil was positive echoed in his stronghold, which, with its high ceilings and open space, was built magnificently for echoing.

In a short time – so short that he was momentarily surprised at its shortness, though none could have guessed from looking at him – Thranduil was in front of the hallway which Lalaith’s room was contained. Two guards, standing dutifully on either side of the archway leading into the hall, saw him and bowed their heads shortly, respectfully. Neither of them, however, spoke a word, their stoic demeanor perfected from years upon years of serving.

“I would have the keys to these rooms,” Thranduil commanded. He was sure the guards were curious as to why their king wished to visit Lalaith (it was obviously her, as there was no other guest within the walls currently), but not a hint of that curiosity betrayed itself in their postures, expressions, or eyes. Instead, the guard to the left simply bowed his head once more, reached for the many keys hanging from his belt, and placed it in the king’s outstretched hand. Not in the mood nor the frame of mind to waste time either, Thranduil promptly took the keys and swept past the guards and into the hallway.

Lalaith’s room was at the end of the hall, nearly twenty feet down from the guards’ positions. Eyes fixed on her door, Thranduil slowed his pace so his footsteps would not sound quite so much like a child in a hurry to the kitchen. He had come about one-third of the way down the hall and thus, one-third of the way to her door, when his ears caught a sound and he slowed further, faced with slight (and frankly embarrassing) confusion as he realized precisely _what_ that sound was.

Sobbing. He stopped in his tracks, roughly halfway down the hallway.

Loathe as he was to admit it, Thranduil was utterly caught off guard. _Sobbing?_ He now paused completely, eyes fixed on Lalaith’s door. Was the girl actually crying? Thranduil strained his ears, wondering if he was mistaken, but no – the sounds of crying were definitely originating from Lalaith’s room.

Why the idea of Lalaith crying was so foreign to Thranduil, he could not say. Perhaps it was because he had never expected her to let her guard down in such a way. For most of the time he had been acquainted with his guest, she presented herself as wily and almost – _almost_ – spiteful. Her feistiness was nearly vicious in its boldness; it struck him as both admirable but also immature. Until recently, Thranduil had seen her as almost a _brat._ And the mounting irritation at the thought of her had not quite been helpful in remedying those sentiments.

But in that moment . . . the sound of her sobbing reminded him of his recollection of that morning that had been buried under the force of his anger – of the sadness he had glimpsed in her eyes, the hollow wistfulness that he recognized all too well, because he, at times, saw it on his own face when he gazed into a mirror. And more than that, her cries stirred memories he had pushed inside the deepest recedes of his heart, for he did had not wanted to face them: memories of his own tears, memories of the throbbing of his chest and the pounding of his head and the yawning emptiness in his being that his mother, then his father, then his wife, had left him with. And those cries from his guest were hard and harsh, like cloth ripping, and bore such heartbreak that abject grief was the only possible cause. Thranduil knew all too well from his own experience.

_“I find that it is tiresome, especially after the deaths of my parents."_  Her parents. Her parents, dead, gone, swept away to the Undying Lands, leaving her alone on this cold, cruel land.

He was torn; torn between spinning on his heel and walking away, forgetting that he had ever witnessed this scene, forgetting he had ever heard Lalaith crying, or standing there, unsure of what he wanted to do. Thranduil no longer wanted to remind Lalaith whose home this was; indeed, any anger that he felt towards her had drained away so rapidly that its absence would have been practically cold and solid, had a soft feeling not risen to replace it. And although that feeling was not something he felt often, he recognized it nevertheless.

Compassion.

But still, he hesitated. Not sure if he wanted to walk in and invade her privacy – walk in and attempt to console her. Perhaps it would help Lalaith to know that there were others in this place who understood just how _hollow_ loss truly was, but then, she struck Thranduil not as a person who would appreciate sympathy, because sympathy was often mistaken for pity, and pity was something nobody liked to receive. Thranduil might have his gripes with the girl, but he did not want to genuinely disrespect her in such a manner; at her age, surviving alone? She had resilience.

He stared at the door. Walk away? Forget? Or approach? Comfort?

_What would I have wanted?_

The thought almost made him turn around and select the former option. Recalling his younger self, wavering, flickering, _uncertain_ , and thoroughly devastated, Thranduil did not think he would have liked someone to walk in and witness his moment of vulnerability. _It would have soured my pride,_ he thought, _made me grimace in embarrassment._

But would it have, truly?

Thranduil drifted back to who he had been. When his mother died, he had been a child still, really. Lost and alone, but refusing to take comfort in his father for fear that Oropher might see him as weak. His mother gone, and he afraid of losing the only parent he had remaining.

No, not afraid. _Terrified._ His father . . . for all he admired Oropher for, his father had not been a good father, and Thranduil had always been terrified, terrified, of displeasing him. His mother had been his comfort there; gentle, smiling, warm, kind, but she was steel. Never weak, never soft, a constant in his life that he looked up to and admired, more than he ever looked up to or admired his father. For entirely different reasons.

And to lose her . . . the feeling had been unspeakable. Even now, standing in the guest hall, staring at Lalaith’s door, Thranduil shuddered to think of it.

When he had lost his father had been an entirely different sort of horror. If his mother’s death had brought an overwhelming wave of sensation – a throbbing heart, an aching head, a shaking hand – his father’s death had brought a horrifying stillness. The realization that his father was dead, that his people now relied on him alone to lead them, and he had no one to look at for example. That he was _alone_ in the position of royalty. He had not cried then, but . . . the experience had been nauseating, nevertheless.

Then Faelwen’s death, of course. _That,_ Thranduil wanted not even to think of. Even now, when he remembered his wife’s body, crumpled and motionless on the cold, hard ground, his thoughts drifted to his swords, and just how exquisite, how inviting, the long, curved metal blades seemed.

Thranduil stared at Lalaith’s door. During those periods of despair, of pain and loss and terror and confusion – periods similar to what Lalaith was experiencing now, with the passing of her own parents – if _someone_ had walked in then, comforted him, placed a hand on his shoulder and reassured him that he was not alone in his devastation, that there were others who understood what he was feeling, would it have helped Thranduil?

_Yes_. The answer was stark. Blatant. Painfully obvious. _Yes. It would have._

And with that it mind, Thranduil stepped forward. He closed the distance between the room and himself until he stood in front of Lalaith’s door, then he raised the keys in his hand and inserted the corresponding key into the keyhole. With a turn of his hand, the lock clicked, and Thranduil heard the crying cut off abruptly.

It saddened him, and more than anything, he understood. Lalaith wanted not for anyone to see her so vulnerable, and he understood that on a painful level. Gently, he turned the handle and opened the door, stepping inside and shutting it behind him. Turning towards the bed, a gaze as pale as was told of the vast expanses of the legendary Helcaraxë greeted him.

She was seated at foot end of her bed, or rather, the bed provided in the guest chamber, her hands placed on the mattress, fingers curled around the edge on either side of her, posture hunched and legs hanging off the edge as well, dangling, not touching the ground. Though his guest had long limbs, she was just on the short side for one of the Eldar, and the bed had been built for a male elf of average height. Too large for her.

Lalaith’s inky black hair appeared to be in disarray, tousled and unkempt as if she had woken from sleeping. Strangely enough, she still wore the blue-green tunic and the leggings that she had had on during the archery test, earlier in the day. She had slept, but not changed out of an outfit meant for athletic activity? Strange.

His guest’s expression was already guarded, having stitched her composure back together in the span of a few seconds. If not for the redness of her eyes, the wetness on her lashes and cheeks, and the familiar and ferocious grief that blazed from her gaze, Thranduil would not even have pinned that expression to be that of someone’s who had just seconds ago been crying. For a moment, he thought she might ask what he was doing here with all the slyness and conniving that he had come to associate her with, but she only stared at him for a scant few seconds and then turned her head away to stare at the wall opposite of the bed. Almost uncaring – no, not almost. _Uncaring._

Truthfully, Thranduil found it the slightest bit unsettling.

“Lady Lalaith.” He retained his imperious air, but her lack of any reaction made him wonder if he had sounded too harsh. He was not in here to intimidate her, after all. So he softened his tone. “You are distressed.”

“Awe-inspiring,” she replied. “Brilliant. Yes, my lord, I am distressed. Thank you for your observation.”

_That_ was the Lalaith he was more used to hearing, and yet her tone was still hollow, and it still made Thranduil uncomfortable to witness her sounding so . . . dispirited for the first time. He walked across the room so he was standing in front of the bed, but positioned himself to Lalaith’s left side rather than directly in front of her. Directly in front was confrontational body language, and that was not why he had entered her room.

She didn’t look at him.

Thranduil felt awkward. Truth to be told, he was not good at comforting others, and would never hand out sugared lies and sweet falsities in order to help those around him feel better. But he was not here to worsen Lalaith’s mood, either; quite the opposite. To remain honest while simultaneously retaining at least some chance of comforting her . . . well, the only solution was to explain their common ground. Thranduil was quite unsure of if it would really be effective.

“Lady Lalaith,” he attempted again. He contemplated easing into the topic of the conversation, but the only introductions he could think of were something similar to “I understand that you are grieving for your departed parents”, and that statement was far too awkward – it felt forced and unnatural. So instead, he was direct and brisk.

“I am not unsympathetic to your plight.” Thranduil began. Were he younger and less used to dismissing the sometimes-unpleasant stares of others, the withering look she gave him then would have silenced him. As it was, however, it bounced off like an arrow off a solid cliff face. “I am not prone to sharing such information with others, but I assume you have deduced already that my parents have since passed into the West.” He paused. “As have yours.”

Lalaith was silent, but, as he’d suspected, the news that his parents had died was clearly nothing really new to her.

“It does not get easier,” Thranduil admitted. “By now, I have lost hope that it ever will.” Slowly, he seated himself on her bed about four feet away from her, taking care not to invade her personal space. Sitting, they were now on a more even plane, and he was not staring down at her and she having to crane her neck to meet his eyes. It would make her feel less unconsciously threatened, he knew.

“But,” he continued, ignoring the uncomfortable curdling feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him he was not doing a very good job. “Lady Lalaith, your sorrow is something that I understand very well.” The words felt hollow, inadequate.

Valar be damned, it was only now that Thranduil realized the full extent of his inexperience when it came to offering comfort. Especially for a problem so utterly without any form of solution. He had always struggled with issues of emotion, for his preference was to create practical, solid answers to anything matters that might ail him. On such things, he would gladly give advice – to his son, to his subjects. But a gaping, raw cause of grief such as the death of one’s parents? How was one to deal with that?

A few feet from Thranduil, Lalaith stirred, turning her body towards him. He met her gaze with practiced indifference, but was frankly puzzled to see a wan smile cross her pale pink lips. She looked tired, _exhausted_ , even, he realized with a start.

“If nothing else, I am grateful for your comforting me,” Lalaith spoke, her tones more delicate and softer than Thranduil ever remembered her sounding. He wondered if she was internally scoffing at the inadequacy with which his attempt at comfort had been accompanied, but the thanks in her pale blue eyes did not appear false no matter how he looked at it. “Frankly, King Thranduil, you do not strike me as the sentimental or sympathetic type, so I hope you understand that I was more than a little bewildered.”

Well. Thranduil could not fault her for that. He took care to appear imperious and crossing the line of arrogant to others, with the exception of a select few. His son, to some extent. His mother, when she had been alive, and his wife, when she had been alive. And Cadweth, his personal healer, the only elf in Greenwood now – besides Thranduil himself – who knew of his scars by dragonfire. In those lists, Lalaith most certainly was not included, and her surprise at his attempt of comfort was understandable.

“But you are kinder than I gave you credit for,” admitted Lalaith easily. It surprised Thranduil, the levity with which his guest confessed to a mistaken belief. He himself despised being wrong, even if it was only natural because he was misinformed, or something of the like. It appeared not to be a sentiment that Lalaith shared.

“Thank you,” said elleth continued, her gaze drifting towards the bookshelves in the room, “for coming here and offering me solace.” She pressed her small hands gently against her eyes, wiping away the tears that were dampening the skin around her eyes and lashes.

The manner in which she phrased her words seemed to imply that what he had said _was_ of some consolation to her. Was she so easily comforted? Or was she simply being polite? Thranduil said nothing and merely studied her. Lalaith did not appear bothered by his gaze.

He wasn’t certain if he had successfully lightened her spirits, and in fact doubted it. But Lalaith did seem to have found a state of more repose. Clearly, she was not sobbing like she had when he was approaching her room, and her gaze was no longer so intensely sorrowful as it had been. All good signs, Thranduil supposed. Nevertheless, he had to wonder if his shaky tries had really helped. “If my attempts were successful,” he stated, “then I shall go, Lady Lalaith, and leave you to your privacy.”

She said nothing. In fact, she did not even move, but her gaze was faraway and thoughtful. Thranduil wondered what she must be thinking. Memories of her parents, perhaps? In any case, not intending to pry about her personal musings, he stood and made his way for the door.

He had come roughly two-thirds of the way when Lalaith called out to him. “Eressëa,” she said, and Thranduil paused. _Eressëa?_ Confused yet suspecting her potential meaning, he turned towards his guest, permitting himself a subtly quizzical expression that she, who he found staring at him, read easily.

“Eressëa,” she repeated. “When I told you I am called Lalaith, you asked my real name, did you not? That is my name. My real name. Eressëa.”

_Eressëa_. In Sindarin, it meant “air”, but Thranduil questioned if Lalaith’s – no, he supposed it was Eressëa now – if Eressëa’s parents had intended to name their daughter after the element. Not unheard of, but still, strange . . . Thranduil could not help wondering if she was being honest.

“Do not be suspicious,” Eressëa sounded amused. “My name means ‘lonely’ in Quenya. A remnant of the language spoken by the Noldorin exiles before the tongue mostly died out. ‘Eressëa’ was the only Quenyan word that my mother knew. I suppose she wanted to preserve it in me.”

_Lonely?_ Thranduil paused at the cruel irony. Had Eressëa’s mother possessed the skill of divination? If she did not, fate had surely played a sadistic joke on his guest. He withheld an acerbic snort in favor of studying his guest. Was she being truthful this time?

When she’d given him her false name, Lalaith, he had been able to tell, for something about her had rung false and forced, and it had been detectable. But there were no such hints now. Eressëa’s voice was steady and did not hitch in the slightest. Her demeanor was relaxed and casual, nothing like that of one who would be telling a falsehood. And there was no slight furrowing of a brow, no subtle grimace that twisted at her lips.

She was being honest, unless Thranduil’s ability to root out lies had suffered a steep decline, or her own ability to lie had inclined sharply.

Eressëa. _Very well._

No more words were exchanged between them, but Thranduil knew she sensed the untold acceptance. Turning on his heel, his robes swishing, he closed the rest of the distance between himself and the doorway and took his leave, only pausing when he locked the door again in his wake. Eressëa had given him her real name. She had been truthful to him. Was it right to imprison her again? Perhaps – Thranduil still did not know the full extent of her intentions – but it rankled him nevertheless to be placing her once more under lock and key.

His trust in his guest _had_ increased, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **||WORDS||**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _**Oropher:**_ Thranduil's father; a Sindarin elf of Doriath who became king of the Silvan elves Greenwood after the Fall of Doriath; perished in the Battle of Dagorlad
> 
> _**elleth:**_ elf-maid, [Sn]
> 
> So. Our Lalaith lied to Thranduil and said her real name was Eressëa, and he believed her. "Eressëa" is a name that I got from "Tol Eressëa", an island off the coast of Valinor. Since it meant "lonely", I thought it would fit Lalaith since before I started writing this story. Frankly, I'm surprised I got this far and managed to put the name in the narrative. My attention span usually doesn't last that long, haha.
> 
> There's a reason that he believed her this time as opposed to last time, when she told him her name was Lalaith. That'll be touched on in the next chapter. For now, I hope you enjoyed.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, we see Lalaith's side of the same scene from earlier, as well as a look at what she was up to before Thranduil invaded her privacy.

Nymíriel’s head hurt. Not only that, but her chest was aching, and it felt increasingly difficult for her lungs to inflate with oxygen. It was as if someone was sitting on her upper abdomen, pressing down with the determined intention to make it more and more hard for her to draw a breath.

She had finally stopped crying.

It was not through her own willpower that she had managed to stop, either. Her cries had been the uncontrollable kind, the kind that made your whole body seize and shudder, the kind that had you choking and gasping for air, body functions going haywire and your brain losing all control. Her stomach ached, as well, not from any problems in and of itself but because of the constant jerks her sternum had been enduring from the force of her crying. It was akin to the stomach pain one felt if they laughed too hard and too much.

How hilarious. If only that was the cause, and not abruptly bursting into tears like a madwoman.

She huddled at the foot of her bed, staring at nothing. She felt hollow, like the utter force of all her sobbing had sucked her spirits right out.

Nymíriel knew her eyes should still be smarting, that her heart should still feel ill at the memory of her last – her _last_ – interaction with her father. But she simply felt too drained and simply too _exhausted_ to summon up any particular emotion.

 _Does that make me cruel?_ she wondered, then dismissed the question. Of course it made her cruel. Every action she had taken against her father in her entire life made her cruel.

She knew not how long she sat there, listlessly curled on the mattress, gazing vacantly at naught but thin air. If someone had walked in at that moment, she would not be surprised to be pinned as delusional. But eventually, sensing the urge to do _something_ creeping into her like water leaking between a narrow gap, she hesitantly placed her bare feet on the floor and stood. To her surprise, her legs were steady; she would have expected them to tremble and give from under her.

Taking a shaky breath, Nymíriel plodded to the bookshelf and uncertainly searched the spines, her gaze passing carelessly over titles. She wanted to be taking some sort of action – she had always found it difficult to sit by and do _nothing_ – but no book would catch her attention. The fogginess in her head was still too thick and clogged her mind, and she could not even make herself try and dispel it. Her sights hovered blankly over spines reading all manner of things, including, _“The Valar: A Guide”,_ _“Hymns to Elbereth”_ , _“The Fëanorians: Their Triumphs and Sorrows”,_ _“The Continent in the West: The Land of Deities”_ , and _“The Tale of Beren and Lúthien”._ Not one of them could pique her interest; Nymíriel felt too blank, too _vacant_ , plain and simple. But still, it just did not feel _right_ to waste away and allow time to pass her by.

Then her eyes paused at a certain title: _“The Untold Shores of the East”._ She blinked, the fog in her mind thinning somewhat as her naturally curious nature was stimulated. Nymíriel loved nothing more than knowledge, and she never found greater joy than in learning new things, merely for the sake of knowing those new things. It seemed that had not changed, for her head felt clearer with each second, and her thoughts once again began to turn – a change catalyzed by the odd book. It was leather-bound and quite thick, its title carved hurriedly into the leather rather than prettily engraved like the other books. Nymíriel frowned.

The east? She certainly knew – almost all Eldar knew, Nymíriel would assume – what lay in the West. Valinor. The home of the Valar, the home of the Eldar who had not followed Fëanor into exile. The place of rebirth, where the souls of her kind traveled following their death to wait in the Halls of Mandos until re-embodiment. But the _east_? Never had her father or mother spoke of what lay there; even her lady grandmother, Galadriel, had never, to her knowledge, mentioned what could be east of Middle-Earth.

The Eldar assumed that there was nothing; her father did, her mother had, her sister did, her brothers did. How was it possible, after all, that anything could lie east of this continent, when they had heard no word, no communication, no traces of life? No, not what they believed; that there was naught to the east but vast, endless oceans.

And now there was a book claiming otherwise! _“The Untold **Shores** of the East”?_ Frowning, intrigued, Nymíriel gripped the book by its spine and pulled it from its place on the shelf. Idly alternating between holding it in one hand, then in the other, then back to the first hand, she walked back to the bed and made herself comfortable in the midst of the blankets and sheets. Having found a satisfactory position, she flipped the cover with her left thumb, opening the book, her pulse racing with curiosity.

No beautiful pictures greeted her. There were no colored illustrations, no aesthetically pleasing images to provide her an image of what exactly lay beyond the eastern oceans that she had believed to be limitless. But what Nymíriel did see was handwriting – messy but still legible handwriting. The book was less a book and more a journal. Nymíriel’s mind raced as she began to read.

**_I am awestruck. Long have my people believed that nothing but limitless oceans lie beyond the eastern shores of Middle-Earth. I believed so myself when I set out to lose myself at sea. The entire time I crafted my raft and sewed my sails and stored my food, I intended to see as much of the eastern seas before I at last – and most certainly would – perish._ **

**_By the One, who could have thought another continent existed across these oceans?_ **

Nymíriel’s eyes widened. Her breath faltered, momentarily distracted from the sorrows of her family and her situation. A _continent_ lay beyond the ocean? She stared at the yellowed, worn pages, her heart thumping. What was this? Who might the writer be? Were these the ramblings of a madman? Or was their truly another land across the sea?

If there was . . . what sort of place might it be? This was a matter that was beyond anything Nymíriel had ever before heard. Her mother had told her tales of the West that she herself had heard from her own mother, whose place of birth had, in fact, been Valinor, but naught to say about the _East_ did any of her older family members have! Her father had long told her stories of the quest of Beren and Lúthien, or the Exile of the Noldor from Aman, or, those she personally most enjoyed – tales of her parents when they met, the places they had frequented together, the discussions they had shared. She had loved listening to them all, but this was something even her father knew, imagine, absolutely _noth_ –

Nymíriel stopped.

Her father. Elrond.

_“Will you not return home?”_

_“Where is ‘here’, Nymíriel?”_

_“You are my daughter. Everything to do with you is for me to know.”_

_“You will listen to me. This one time, you_ will. _”_

 _“Nymíriel,_ what are you saying _?”_

Suddenly, she did not want to read. _Could not_ read. Swallowing hard, fighting through the tidal wave of emotion swamping her being and threatening to overwhelm her thin, barely established veneer of calm, Nymíriel slid the journal under the pillow of her bed, a habit she had gained during her early years and had never managed to successful break. No sooner did the book disappear under the fabric of the pillow did she realize she was shuddering.

Trying to calm herself, Nymíriel sucked air forcefully into her lungs, hissing through her teeth – and nearly coughed at the backlash of her own body. She was trembling. _Intensely._ She knew what she wanted to do; she wanted to cry. She thought her body had spent all its tears, but evidently, she had been wrong, and the urge to scream and wail and sob was so overwhelming that she could practically _feel_ the shrieks coming forward, erupting from her abdomen and rising to her chest, then her neck, pressing ferociously against her throat as if trying to squeeze out through a too-narrow passageway.

All she had to do was let herself cry.

But Nymíriel did not. She bit the inside of her cheek until the flavor of blood, metallic and sharp, against the nerves of her tongue, made itself known, and her shoulders were practically seizing from the effort it took her to hold herself together. She wrapped her arms around herself, each hand resting on the upper part of the opposite arm, and _squeezed,_ her slender fingers digging harshly into her skin, as if in an effort to keep herself from tearing open (because truly, that was not so far off from what she was feeling). It was painful – so, _so_ painful, but she held her tears. 

 _Good things,_ she told herself, and by the Valar, even her mental voice sounded breathless. _Think good things. Fond memories. Pleasant times . . ._

In the cruelest, most utterly sadistic way possible, her mind listened to her.

_“Happy birthday, Adar!” the four of them shouted, leaping from their respective hiding spots; Elladan from around the corner, Elrohir from beneath the table, Arwen from underneath the counter, and Nymíriel from behind the simple yet elegant blue curtains draping the window that provided the family’s dining spot a view that overlooked the main plaza of Imladris._

_Their father’s clear blue eyes widened in surprise, his fine eyebrows rising and his lips parting in a silent gasp. For a few second the Lord of Imladris was struck dumb, staring in paralyzed bewilderment at his four children as they all struck their odd poses and beamed at him. Then the shock was wiped off Elrond’s face, to be replaced with amusement and, more than that – happiness._

_“My children,” he smiled, his eyes narrowing with affection, warming Nymíriel’s heart, “what is this mischief?”_

_“It is just as it appears, Adar,” Elladan declared with glee, skipping merrily up to their father. “We, your infinitely gracious children, have prepared a surprise in celebration of your birthday.” He frowned. “We_ did _attempt to specify exactly_ which _birthday that would be, but, forgive us, we could not quite_ count _. . .”_

_“Elladan!” Elrohir hissed, but it was plain and obvious that all four of them were withholding laughter at Elladan’s playful jab. Nymíriel’s shoulders shook as she tried to contain her desperate giggles, but it was of no avail. A quiet titter slipped from her mouth and the only response she could muster for Arwen’s mock-scolding gaze was an awkward smile._

_“Oh, thou troublemaker,” Elrond sighed, but his eyes were twinkling with mirth. “You are being too cruel to me, my son.”_

_It made Nymíriel smile to see her father smile so._

_“Sit down, Adar,” she ordered, grabbing her father’s hand and leading him over to the dining table. Her siblings crowded around her to help in teasingly forcing their father to take a seat at the head of the table. “Today, we are your servants,” Elrohir declared, picking up the bottle of white wine (their father’s favorite, Nymíriel had informed them, for she’d made a habit of taking note of her family’s palatial preferences) and pouring the sparkling liquid into the clear goblet that Elladan had, a few minutes before when they were in the midst of preparations, placed at their father’s seat._

_Elrond chuckled. Rare it was that Nymíriel saw him looking so lighthearted, every since Naneth had chosen to sail beyond the western ocean and pass into the Undying Lands. She ignored the pang in her heart as her gaze inadvertently trailed to the seat at the right-hand side of her father. It had been her mother’s seat before she set sail and now it was Elladan’s. Feeling sadness creeping through like ice, she shook her head infinitesimally. It was not the time to allow such thoughts take away from the festive atmosphere. Her siblings and she had planned hard for this, and she would not let it spoil because of her._

_“I am flattered, ion-_ _nín,” Adar commented, amusement dancing in his rich voice. “Too often do you disregard your poor father these days – all of you,” His eyes, still twinkling, swept the four of them in succession. “All so busy with your own devices. Your father feels abandoned.” But the tender smile and gaze that he gifted them all with could not be mistaken._

_Arwen smiled. “Worry not, Father. Today, all our attention shall be focused exclusively on you. We swear it,” she affirmed. Nymíriel nodded in wholehearted agreement, as did her older brothers. Their father chuckled, and it was a beautiful sound to hear. As of late he appeared to be so occupied with matters of the state that he had hardly spoken to any of them. He was exhausting himself, and Nymíriel knew neither she nor her siblings would have been comfortable allowing their father to toe the limits of his mental stamina._

_They were only grateful that his birthday had been approaching, giving them an excuse to pull off such actions._

_Elladan and Elrohir hurried off to the kitchen, Nymíriel and Arwen on their heels. The food that they had prepared for their father – his favorites, as Nymíriel had taken note of beforehand – was prepared and loaded onto plates, and the four of them had only need to bring them to the table. And they did; Elladan scooped up the plate of salad which Elrohir had made by mixing small slices of apples, celery, walnuts, and grapes. Arwen took charge of the vegetable broth, made by Nymíriel with celery, garlic, cloves, bay leaf, pepper corns, and parsley. As for Nymíriel herself, she smiled to herself as she picked up the platter of beef that she had earlier sliced into small, thin slivers, as her father preferred them. Next to her, Elrohir flashed her his familiar reassuring smile as he carefully balanced a plate that held slices of salmon that Elladan had hunted and brought back. She beamed back at him, contentment pulsing through her veins, spreading over her like the warmth of her blankets when she fell asleep._

_They did not have many circumstances that provided them the opportunity to do something special for their father. It was an unfortunate inevitability that came with Elrond’s position as Lord of Imladris; he was simply too preoccupied with his governing. Even more unfortunately, he was ever under considerable stress. And . . . Nymíriel was loathe to admit it, but she in particular had discovered that there now lay a particular friction in her relationship with her father, and her father’s relationship with her. She knew he did not approve of her travels, and his efforts to convince her to get rid of, or at least decrease their frequency, were ceaseless. Truth to be told, it irritated her. She understood that her father, her kind, upright, strong father had endured tragedy after tragedy. His own father, Eärendil Half-Elven, son of Tuor and Idril, had rarely been present during his childhood, and his mother, Elwing, granddaughter of Lúthien Tinúviel, had cast herself into the sea when he was but a child; a child even by human standards. His guardians, Maedhros and Maglor, they had left him, and his twin brother had chosen the Fate of Men. The last High King of the Noldor, Ereinion Gil-Galad, a dear friend of her father, had died as well, fighting Sauron the Abhorred in the Second Age. And of course . . . Nymíriel’s heart ached to think of it. Her very own mother, the beautiful, spirited, steely-spined Celebrían had willingly sailed West._

_All this her father had endured, and she admired him greatly for it. Yet why he could not understand that those days of danger and strife and horror were over, she could not understand. And, in her heart of hearts, Nymíriel admitted that she resented it. She resented that her father could not differentiate between what had been and what was. She resented that his blurring of the past and the present took form in his trying to restrain her from her travels, which she so enjoyed. Why could he not simply let her be? What was so difficult to understand in wanting to experience the world she lived in in its entirety?_

I will ruin this, _Nymíriel realized. She shook aside her negative emotions. It was her father’s birthday, and just for today, he deserved to enjoy himself. They all deserved to enjoy themselves, and to reinforce their ties as the closest of kin; a father and his four children. She would not let her wayward thoughts spoil such an occasion._

_Having succeeded in putting aside her doubts, Nymíriel found herself once again able to smile genuinely and widely as she and her siblings traipsed back into the dining room, where their father was waiting with an anticipatory smile. He looked more carefree than she could remember seeing him, Nymíriel thought elatedly._

_“Here you are, Adar,” Elladan sang out, placing the plate he held on the table. The other three followed, arranging their respective cuisine so they were spread out before their father in a suitably appetizing fashion._

_Elrond glanced at the dishes and turned a questioning gaze on the four of them. “I thought you did not like salmon, ion-nín,” he commented to Elrohir. “And you dislike walnuts, Nymíriel, yet they are in the salad. Elladan, you do not like beef, and Arwen, you are not fond of garlic or cloves, but they are in the salad as well.”_

_Elrohir smiled, somewhat sheepish. “I do not like salmon, not particularly,” he acknowledged. “And neither has any of the others become any fonder of the foods you mentioned. But it is your birthday, Adar. I will stomach it.”_

_“And so will we,” added Arwen, to Nymíriel’s agreement. Elladan, standing next to her, was also nodding in affirmation._

_Their father remained silent for a moment. “Are you certain?” he asked, concern tinging his blue eyes. Truth to be told, Nymíriel had never quite understood such concern. It was a concern that she saw in her father that seemed to arise at the paltriest of matters._ Of course _they were certain; of course it was alright. It was nothing but a bit of food that they did not liked, and if they disliked it so much as to outright refuse to eat it, it was a very simple matter to simply not do so. Yet their father was still looking after their certainty. It touched her, of that she had no doubt, but it confused her all the same. He already did so much for them; they owed him such a small thing, at the very,_ very _least. There was no need to be worried over their food preferences._

_“Of course,” Elladan assured, echoing Nymíriel’s thoughts. “You do much for us, Adar. It is only right that we do this little thing in your return.”_

_Still slightly hesitant, but giving in, their father nodded._

_“Sit down, all of you,” Nymíriel offered her siblings, “I will get plates for the four of us. And utensils.” They did as she said, Elladan smiling briefly but gratefully at her. She blinked in acknowledgement and went into the kitchen, where she began to gather four plates; one for herself, and one for each of her siblings. Balancing them all on one hand, as she had taught herself, she opened the drawer, fetching a fork, a knife, and a spoon for her father. Hurrying back into the dining room, she laid the plates out in front of her siblings (serving herself first, of course, and seeing Elrond smiling with amusement at her action), offered the fork, knife, and spoon to her father, then retraced her steps back into the kitchen and to the drawer. There she drew out four more forks, four more knives, and four more spoons._

_Returning to the dining hall and handing out the utensils, Nymíriel finished and took her usual seat. Their father sat at the head of the table, Elladan to his right, Elrohir to his left, Nymíriel next to Elladan, and Arwen next to Elrohir. Speaking brief prayers to Eru, the One, the Father of All, they ate._

_After the meal, the four siblings pulled their father into his private chambers, where they presented him with the gifts they had prepared, one from each of them. Nymíriel had not known what her siblings had been planning to give to their father; neither did they know what she intended to give. It was the first time for all of them, looking upon each other’s gifts, and she was curious, looking on intently as they each unwrapped what they had devised to gift to their father._

_Elrond unwrapped the first gift; the one that was from Arwen. He drew out a smooth, solid object that fit pleasingly into the palm of his hand. Looking closely, Nymíriel realized that it was a painted wood carving of their keep in Imladris, its slim towers reaching into the sky and its various open balconies scattered about the building at varying heights. Staring at it, Nymíriel could not help marvel at her sister’s woodcarving skill, for every characteristic was perfectly proportioned and perfectly correspondent to their actual dwelling. She herself had some ability in woodcarving, as did her brothers, but Arwen was the best of them by far._

_Their father raised it to his face, studying its every detail. “This is very meticulously carved,” he commented. “It is excellent, Arwen. It was made with your hand, was it not?”_

_“It was,” Arwen affirmed. Nymíriel looked on fondly. Her dignified, solemn sister wore a rare smile._

_“You did very well,” Elrond praised. “And thank you.” Arwen dipped her head, her smile widening. Nymíriel tapped her playfully on the arm in congratulations._

_The next gift was from Elladan, and much larger than Arwen’s hand been. Nymíriel looked on as her father unwrapped it, too, revealing a beautiful painting set in an ornate wooden frame. The painting showed a depiction of what appeared to be Valinor. Nymíriel could not say for certain, naturally, as she had never before been to the land of the Valar, but the scenery matched the general descriptions she had read in countless texts, scrolls, and books about the West. It was beautiful, with a rising sun painting the horizon brilliant orange-gold, a lightening sky, and a range of mountains. One soared above the rest, its peak nearly lost in the sky. Of that, Nymíriel had heard tell, as had all her siblings; it was Taniquetil, the tallest mountain in Aman, upon which Ilmarin, the estates of Manwë and Varda, king and queen of all of the world. She felt shivers of awe involuntarily travel through her spine, for such was the beauty of Elladan’s painting. But then, she expected as much from Elladan. When they had the opportunity, they painted together during leisure time (neither Elrohir nor Arwen had taken much of an interest), and his talent was undeniable._

_“Ion-nín.” Their father spoke, drawing Nymíriel out of her daze. His gaze was full of surprise as he stared at Elladan. “I had no inkling that your skill was such.”_

_Elladan smiled. “I practice much, Father,” he replied, somehow with every bit of humility possible. “Do you . . . does it please you?”_

_Elrond nodded, smiling as well. “It does. Very much so. Thank you, Elladan.”_

_Elladan’s grin widened. Nymíriel felt her heart warming even more. How long had it been since the five of them had been together like this? If only . . . she looked down to prevent herself from betraying her sudden sadness to her family. If only her mother were here, too. She wondered if anyone else was thinking the same._

_Elrohir’s gift was after, which made Nymíriel notice that she felt nervous. Her gift was to be saved for last . . . would her father like it? Her siblings had had similar worries, she remembered. Of course outwardly he would display all the delight in the world, for he was mindful of their feelings. But,_ in truth _, would her gift please him? And to be last, too . . . Nymíriel’s teeth sank into her bottom lip. She would have sooner gone first._

 _Unwrapping Elrohir’s present as well, which revealed itself to be an ornately carved ceramic vase, Elrond ran his hand thoughtfully down its side – to test its smoothness, Nymíriel surmised. It certainly appeared to be very fine quality; the ceramics shone, reflecting the light of the setting sun, and ornate flower decorations ran down its length, vines and petals twisting and turning gracefully over each other. Nymíriel had never taken an interest or attempted carving ceramics, and the beauty of the vase had her staring in surprise._ How _was it possible to craft such things with one’s own hands? She could not imagine it._

_“The craftsmanship is excellent, Elrohir,” commented their father, approving. “And you took note of the type of design I favor.” It was true, Nymíriel realized. Their father preferred vases with narrow bodies and round necks, tapering in and becoming slimmer the further down one went. Elrohir had matched that shape very well._

_“Thank you, Elrohir. It is very well done.” The thanks and praise were accompanied with a warm smile and a pat of gratitude on Elrohir’s shoulder. Nymíriel’s nervousness grew. Now it was her turn._

_She watched with a little apprehension as her father unwrapped her gift and brought it out, holding it in his hands: something large made of velvet, folded neatly. As her father undid the folds, Nymíriel held her breath, watching her gift reveal itself. She wondered if her siblings had felt so nervous when their father had been unwrapping theirs._

_Elrond held his arms out in front of him, the[robe](https://i.pinimg.com/474x/06/56/64/06566409dbc93bd9e15e2d254da46a77.jpg) held in his hands, its lower fabric spilling down to the floor and pooling (for her father was seated). It was a dark red color with lighter orange-red material about the wrists. Nymíriel had sewn on buttons, but had also placed a tie that, when tied, pulled the left and right sides of the robe together right under the chest, so it could also be worn without the buttons (provided, of course, the wearer wore a tunic or something of the sort beneath). Its long sleeves flared out widely at the end, in traditional Imladris fashion, and Nymíriel had, as a finishing touch, embroidered a large sigil that stretched down the upper arms of the robe._

_Looking at it now, she withheld a wince. She had tried her best, and she enjoyed making clothes, but for a birthday present, it did not seem fitting nor pleasing enough._

_“You sewed this with your own hand, did you not, Nymíriel?” Her father questioned, glancing at her. Smiling despite herself, proud of her work, she nodded._

_“I know not where you found the time or patience,” he chuckled. Standing, her father walked to her and patted her shoulder gently. “But I cannot believe you made this for me. Thank you, Nymíriel.” He smiled._

_Her nerves evaporating, for she did not think her father’s pleasure had been insincere in any way, Nymíriel was swept with a wave of fondness. She loved her father; he was an excellent father to all of them, and she dared not ask for better. Raising herself to her tiptoes, for she was on the shorter side for one of the Eldar, and looping an arm around her father’s shoulders, she pressed a brief kiss to his cheek._

_Elrond laughed then, sweeping her into his arms in a strong embrace, opening one arm towards his other children as well in invitation. They all clustered together in a cluttered but still touching hug, and their father spoke._

_“I believe I must thank all of you for this. Never has Eru blessed any father in Eä with children as wonderful as the four of you.”_

_“And no child in Eä is as fortunate as us in being born to a father such as you, Adar.” They all knew that Elladan spoke for all of them: himself, Elrohir, Arwen, and Nymíriel as well. Wholeheartedly._

_Her eyes closed in contentment. She felt so full and happy at that moment that she could have purred. It would be wonderful, she thought, just wonderful, if days like these could go on forever. A foolish hope, a naïve hope, and perhaps even a cliché hope, but Nymíriel could have sworn she’d never desired anything more in her life._

Nymíriel laughed. 

She erupted into giggles, keeling over and clutching the bedspread in clenched fists, wrinkling the fine material. Her head still pounded, her chest tightened, and she felt dizzy and lightheaded from all her laughing, but she could not stop.

Days such as _that,_ going on forever? Ha. _Ha!_ What an idiot. What a half-witted, thoughtless, spiteful, self-absorbed little _brat!_

Nymíriel could not prevent her laughter from spilling out of her mouth as she realized just _what_ she was. A fool. A selfish, shortsighted little fool, thinking such times could possibly last forever.

 _Not when you are like_ this, she told herself spitefully. _Not when you are so unfathomably self-centered, so – so . . . so_ wretched.

Because she was cretin enough to wish for something so impossible, for happy days such as _that_ to last forever, when _she_ was so _awful_ that she would have destroyed all of it. She _had_ destroyed all of it; not listening to her father, bringing the Warg into Imladris, the deaths –

Because she _still_ did not understand. Even after that, she _still_ did not quite understand why her father had been so reluctant to permit her travels. He could not have known she would bring something so dangerous into the valley, could he? Her travels were just that; exploring the world she lived on. Glimpsing the lives of others, other races and other peoples, and marveling at the differences and similarities. Why had her father been _so_ adamant against it, _so_ disapproving? Why, when there was hardly any danger left in Middle-Earth any longer? Why? The answer seemed to be dangling right in front of her very nose, and yet she _still_ could not tell. Ignorant. Simpleton. Fool.

Selfish. _Selfish._

Nymíriel realized tears had gathered in her eyes as she’d laughed, and now they had spilled over her lashes and down her face. The cool air of King Thranduil’s stronghold felt positively icy against her now damp skin, but she made no attempt to wipe her tears away. Her body was still wracked with laughter, but the chuckles were getting weaker; gradually, but surely, they were subsiding, and she at last managed to draw breath between her giggles.

Her laughter ceasing, finally, Nymíriel rose to her knees on the bed, still somewhat hunched over. Her gaze was fixed on her hands, clutching the bedspread and wrinkling it between her fingers. She felt lightheaded from lack of air, for she’d failed to supply herself with enough oxygen while laughing, but her mind was racing despite how blank and vacant her eyes were.

It made _sense_ , she realized. Why King Thranduil had not believed her when she lied, when she told him her name was ‘Lalaith’. It made sense because . . . she had still been holding on. She’d been holding on to _herself,_ to _Nymíriel,_ the daughter of Elrond and Celebrían, the granddaughter of Galadriel and Celeborn. If she went even further, the great-granddaughter of Finarfin and E _ä_ rwen, high king and queen of the Noldorin Eldar in Valinor. Without even realizing it herself, without even being aware of what she was doing, she had been clinging onto a strand of the hair on Nymíriel’s head with all her strength, never letting her go fully or completely.

That was why. That was why King Thranduil had not been fooled. Because Lalaith had never totally been _Lalaith._ Because Nymíriel had been holding on, and Lalaith had allowed her to. Might have unconsciously encouraged it, in fact.

But no more. Nymíriel took a deep breath. _No more_. She was foolish, selfish, blind, and arrogant, and she could not even stomach herself. And she most certainly would not return to Imladris. Never. _Never._

She’d told her father the truth. Nymíriel had no evidence suggesting that her dream had been more than just a dream, just a ridiculously detailed dream, but . . . intuition insisted that it was not, and Nymíriel felt that this intuition was correct. And that was good. If it were not a mere dream, her father had heard her words, the words that she truly _meant,_ this time. And he knew.

It was over. All _over._ She would not return, she would not trouble him. And frankly, she could not face him, or Elladan, or Elrohir, or Arwen. Not when she was so idiotic. So self-centered. So _awful._

She’d been holding on to Nymíriel, but . . . it was time to let her go. Time to build for herself a new life, in earnest. Time to let go of her father, her brothers, her sister. Try as they might to hold on to her, but if one side let go than the other side had no way to maintain contact.

 _I’m sorry._ Nymíriel straightened. Fresh tears were pooling, and she made no attempt to stop them as they slipped from her eyes and onto her already-wet cheeks. _I’m sorry, Adar. Arwen, Elrohir, Elladan, I’m sorry._ They would worry. They likely _were_ worrying, already. And each of them would receive one less gift, one less embrace, once less smile, on their birthday. But worth it, it was, because they would all be better off without her.

It was all worth it.

The tears were coming faster now. The thought that she might never see them all again – her father, her sister, her brothers – the thought that she was willingly and intentionally cutting ties with them . . . it was painful. The thought that the last glimpse of Arwen that she would have was her sister staring at her in horror was painful. The thought that the last she spoke to her brothers was bidding them an enjoyable and education time in Greenwood was painful. The thought that the last image that she would see of her father was that of him staring at her, stricken with desperation and confusion and anger, was almost more than she could bear.

She would never see them again. Not until after they all found the Undying Lands. Or perhaps even long after that. They were all Peredhel; they all had a choice. Men or elves. Whatever her choice was, Nymíriel resolved, it would be different from theirs. She would make sure they never met again. In the West she would avoid them, at all costs. Beyond the circles of the world she would put as much distance as possible between herself and Arda. Wherever she went, she _would._

At the thoughts, she found herself crying again, _again;_ crying like she had been right after _that_ dream. _Again,_ she felt as if she could not breathe. Again, her body shook and shuddered and seized, and she gasped for air between violent sobs and choked cries. Again, her stomach began to ache at all the heaving and panting and sobbing that she underwent, and again, she felt as if her lungs were demanding loudly and obstinately for oxygen that she could scarcely provide. Through the haze of tears and cries, Nymíriel was sure she was writhing about the mattress like a victim of strangulation via poison.

She curled up at the foot end of the bed, her legs pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around herself, her face buried between her knees in an attempt to muffle the sobs. She wondered if the guards, standing at the end of the corridor, could hear. She wondered what they would make of their king’s guest, and virtual prisoner, suddenly erupting into violent tears out of the blue. And really, she could not, for the life of her, bring herself to care. Let them think whatever they wanted, as long as – long as they did not realize her secret, all was well.

_All was well._

“All is . . . well,” she muttered. “All’s we–”

And then sobs broke out of her again. All was well. Right. _Right._

Time once again became a pointless thing as she sat on her spot in a nearly fetal position, her shoulders shaking, her stomach aching from her cries, her head spinning from the lack of a healthy amount of air in her body. The only sound to accompany her were her sobs, and even _she_ found them tiresome by the time they had begun to cease.

But they _did_ begin to cease, eventually, although she could not say how long had passed since they’d begun. At last able to control her sobs, which were becoming lighter and softer, slowly but steadily weakening, she dropped her legs from their position pulled up to her chest and allowed them to dangle over the mattress, her feet not touching the floor. She was long of limb, always had been, but the bed was too much for her. She did not mind overmuch. How could she, in _this_ state?

Her sobs had not quite reached the point where they could not be heard outside her room when the sound of the locks turning reached her ears. Eyes widening, mind scrambling although her body remained statuary, she forced herself to swallow the next cry that had been about to burst from her throat, and the resulting ache in her chest almost made her yelp in pain. As the lock clicked, now no longer locked, she forced, or tried to force, an expression of serenity onto her face. Except her cheeks were still streaked with tears, so whoever was coming in was not like to buy her unruffled act.

Resigning herself to the reality that _someone_ would realize she had been crying, her head turned toward the door as she waited for it to open, revealing a tall figure clad in ornate robes. She could make out no more, for her chamber was dark, not lit at all but for a few candles flickering in the corner, and the corridor in which the chamber was located was well-lit in contrast, creating a dark silhouette in the doorway but no identifiable facial features. Not that she needed any to know who it was; she could tell already (the long robes gave it all away), but couldn’t help questioning herself, nevertheless. _Him?_ Really? Visiting her? _Now_ of all times, when she was more vulnerable before him than she had ever before been?

 _Valar be damned._ She would have glared if not for her tenuous state of mind and composure.

The figure stepped inside with that familiar imperious air and closed the door behind him. As the torch-light from the hallway was blocked with the door, his features became visible: pale blonde hair, fair skin, blue eyes somewhere between sapphire and cyan. It was Thranduil. She fought the urge to moan pitifully and bury her face into the pillow at the opposite end of the bed. Why _was_ he here? Why must it be him, of all people, to witness her tears?

And she knew he saw them, saw the way his gaze lingered over her wet cheeks with mild curiosity. But no judgement permeated his stare, and she was grateful for that, at least. Then again, she had speculated that the king’s mother and father had long passed, as well, and that was what he believed of her parents, as well. Likely that he had empathy, but she did not expect that he had come here _because_ of that empathy. The king was not so kind, was he?

She stared at him for a second longer before turning her head away to the wall across the room, her disinterest not entirely feigned. Yes, somewhere beneath her indifference, the chagrin of knowing that Thranduil was aware of her crying stirred, but for the most part, she really could not make herself care much.

“Lady Lalaith,” the king spoke, his tone brisk and surprisingly bland. She was not sure what she had expected – for him to be mocking? Condescending? Amused? – but _this_ was not it. Nevertheless, she did not turn her head towards him. Despite his presence in her room, she found that she could not quite fully tear her mind away from the thought of her father, her brothers, and her sister. And Imladris. And its people. And the fact that she would never see any of the above again.

“You are distressed,” Thranduil said. She felt a flash of irritation at his simple statement. Yes. Yes, _obviously,_ she was distressed. She was _crying,_ for Eru’s sake. She briefly contemplated glowering at him, but dismissed the notion as not worth the effort it took. Instead, she replied to his paltry statement appropriately.

“Awe-inspiring.” She meant to snort, but the words came out sounding rather indifferent. “Brilliant.” So did that word. “Yes, my lord, I am distressed. Thank you for your observation.”

Ignoring, or perhaps just not caring about, her barb, Thranduil began to walk across the room and towards the bed. At the back of her mind she wondered what he was doing, but there was no harmful intent about him, and so she decided it did not matter. Not sparing him and glance and instead opting to continue staring at the wall in front of her, she remained quiet, even as the distance between them grew lesser and lesser and the king ended up standing in front of the bed. He was, however, quite a distance to her left, rather than directly in front. While such body language suggested a truce, a lack of hostility, between the two of them, she wondered if he was doing it intentionally. Thranduil had never been unwilling to invade her personal space directly in front of her when he saw the need. Was he _trying_ not pique her?

“Lady Lalaith,” the king spoke again, and this time, she had the presence of mind to flinch infinitesimally at the name _Lalaith._ Who even _was_ she, at any rate? What could she be called?

“I am not unsympathetic to your plight,” Thranduil declared. They both knew of the ‘plight’ he spoke of, and this time, she glared at him in earnest. What – was _that_ what he was here to do? Mull over memories of his departed mother and father with her? She did not have the stomach for it, not now; he must know that. The king was an intelligent man, there was no chance that he did not.

Her withering stare did not affect him, not that she had expected it to. The king was as cold and hard as the stone that made up his stronghold.

He continued, “I am not prone to sharing such information with others,” – _yes_ , she thought, impatient in her sadness, _obviously, King Thranduil, you are not prone to sharing information,_ – “but I assume you have deduced already that my parents have since passed into the West.” A pause. “As have yours.”

Deduced that she had; it was no difficult task, and anyone with half a brain would be able to piece it together. The second statement about _her_ parents, well . . . not quite, but as good as.

That was not the point, though. Wondering if he was really attempting to do what she suspected he was attempting to do, she had to force herself to not glance at him with her puzzled wariness plastered all over her face. She did not think he meant to do something unkind. Cold as he was, the king had never presented himself to her as someone so cruel as to use the ‘death’ of her ‘parents’ to bring her unpleasant emotions. Which meant he was . . . comforting her, or attempting to? _Thranduil?_ Why in Eä would he do such a thing?

“It does not get easier.” The king almost sounded resigned. “By now, I have lost hope that it ever will.”

His words dangled between them like some unspoken grudge, like _tension,_ as he allowed himself a seat roughly four feet away from her, and she knew not what to say. She never imagined the day might come when Thranduil was this vulnerable before her. He was not even _that_ vulnerable, in truth, and his voice and demeanor were generally matter-of-fact in spite of the hollow ring to it, yet she never thought they would reach even these tones with each other.

_How odd . . ._

“But.” Thranduil was speaking again, and even if she did not look at him, she found herself curious as to what he was going to say. “Lady Lalaith, your sorrow is something that I understand very well.”

The tension increased.

Well. So he really _was_ trying to comfort her. She hesitated. Did she _feel_ comforted? Even if she did not, she would appreciate and thank him for his attempts, but she would really rather that his words had had some semblance of positive effect on her. That way she would not feel quite so terrible, and that way she would not have to pity him for trying and failing.

The king’s thought process was not difficult to pin down. Explain their common ground to her. Express that her sorrow did not go unnoticed or un-sympathized with, at least by _someone._ Express to her that he _understood_ how she was feeling.

Well . . . he did not, _could_ not, quite, for her parents were not _really_ dead. Nymíriel’s parents, that was. But. Was this not so different? Her sister, her brothers, her father, and even her mother, in all honestly . . . she would not see them again? What else did that mean to her but that they were dead? They would no longer have any part, any part at _all,_ in her life, so perhaps that _did_ make them dead. To her, at any rate.

And it _hurt._ As necessary as it was, it _hurt._

To hear that someone understood and empathized with that hurt . . . it might have been her imagination, or wishful thinking, or some entirely psychological reaction, all of them having nothing to do with the king’s words, but she felt that the pain had abated by the slightest, _slightest_ increment. And for that, she had the king to thank, had she not?

She shifted at the thought, finding it startlingly uncomfortable. She never imagined she would be genuinely and gratefully thanking this king for _making her feel better,_ of all things. It amused her in some way, pushed out the yawning, aching grief, and without her realization, her lips curved into a faint smile.

“If nothing else, I am grateful for your comforting me,” she offered, and meant it. “Frankly, King Thranduil, you do not strike me as the sentimental or sympathetic type,” and part of her wondered why she was being so forthright with the king of Greenwood, but she continued nonetheless, “so I hope you understand that I was more than a little bewildered.” Well, it was the truth, and the king was not so sensitive as to take offense at such statements. If he did he would not be king. Or at least he would be a very unfit one.

“But,” she amended, not to soften the blow, for she had as little interest in sugaring her words as the king had need or want of her to, but to vocalize her genuine gratitude, “you are kinder than I gave you credit for.” That was true, as well. She _did_ appreciate his attempts, and she _did_ feel as if something had improved, if only marginally. “Thank you,” she paused – wondering what, _exactly_ , she ought to be thankful for – “for coming here and offering me solace.” _It might not have been terribly effective, but I am grateful all the same._ Suddenly aware again of the damp wetness on her cheeks and about her eyes, she wiped the tears away with her fingers.

The king did not respond immediately. She could only presume that he had thoughts of his own running through his head. Memories of _his_ parents, perhaps? She knew not much of Thranduil’s mother and father, and could not help wondering what sort of parents they had been to him. What sort of parents produced _this_ creature, this dichotomy between iciness and heat, indifference and empathy, that sat on a bed not five feet away from her? Or was it not his parents? Was he simply too world-weary?

“If my attempts were successful,” Thranduil spoke, breaking through her musings, “then I shall go, Lady Lalaith, and leave you to your privacy.”

 _Lalaith._ Thranduil had proven to her that he was, perhaps, not quite so cold as he might seem on first, second, third . . . well, the several initial impressions, at least. And he still believed he was calling her by a false name. Perhaps it was time, she thought, to give herself another title. Nymíriel was let go of, Lalaith false in the king’s mind. So . . . what would work? She would like to pick a name that she actually found pleasing to the ear.

She was still thinking when Thranduil stood and started for the door. He had closed more than half the distance when she finally made a decision and called out to him.

“Eressëa.”

The king stopped. Turned to look at her. She saw the puzzled look on his eyes – puzzled, but also understanding, calculating – and elaborated. “Eressëa,” she said again. “When I told you I am called Lalaith, you asked my real name, did you not?” She paused. “That is my name. My real name. Eressëa.”

It would have to be, now. Thranduil studied her, as if questioning her truthfulness. Not that she could blame him, she mused, since she did lie to him upon their first meeting. There was a glimmer of bewilderment, of suspicion, in his gaze, and she guessed why: Eressëa meant “lonely” in Quenya, a language Nymíriel knew, a language that _she_ knew. In Sindarin, however, it meant “air”, and few elves named their children such . . . bland, simple names. They preferred at least a small bit of flamboyance. The king might think she was lying, she realized. It amused her, for some unknown reason.

“Do not be suspicious,” she chided. “My name means ‘lonely’ in Quenya. A remnant of the language spoken by the Noldorin exiles before the tongue mostly died out. ‘Eressëa’ was the only Quenyan word that my mother knew. I suppose she wanted to preserve it in me.” She was sure he noticed the rather sadistic hilarity behind the name, though not quite for the reasons that he was thinking.

The king studied her more, his gaze unwavering and cool, but not hard. And Eressëa, she now was, returned it easily, confidently. There was no tension between them as there had been when she named herself ‘Lalaith’ upon their first meeting. Because she was sure this time; absolutely certain. Nymíriel was gone, she had released her, and with her, she had released Elrond. And Elladan. And Elrohir. And Arwen.

All gone.

And Thranduil believed her. She knew it because he turned away without another word, finished his walk to the door, and departed, closing and locking the door behind him. She knew it because of the quiet acceptance that he exuded, the lack of anger in his eyes.

The lock clicked as the key was inserted and turned, twisting its mechanisms and leaving her trapped in the room once more. Her gaze, thoughtful and toeing the line of calculating, did not leave the door from which the king had walked out. A truth was a truth as long as there were people who believed it, and just now, one person had come to do so. And so it was the truth. She was Eressëa now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Valar:**_ powerful and ancient archangelic beings tasked with the governance and guidance of the Children of Ilúvatar in Arda; the most powerful among them are called the Aratar
> 
>  _ **Elbereth (Gilthoniel):**_ the elvish name for Varda Elentári, the Vala most revered by the elves; one of the Aratar; creator of the stars, queen of Arda, wife of Manwë
> 
>  _ **Fëanorians:**_ refers to the seven son of Fëanor
> 
>  _ **Eldar:**_ Elves
> 
>  _ **Fëanor:**_ a Noldorin elf of legend, son of former High King of the Noldor, Finwë, and his first wife, Míriel Þerindë, half-brother of the former High King of the Noldor, Fingolfin, and current High King of the Noldor (in Valinor), Finarfin, whose oath of recovering his greatest creations, the Silmarilli, led directly to the ruin of his seven sons and directly or indirectly to the great deeds and great sorrows of the First Age
> 
>  _ **Noldor:**_ a clan of elves who arrived second (after the Vanyar) in Valinor following the awakening of elves near the bay of Cuiviénen; formerly led by High King Finwë, currently scattered and without kingdoms in Middle-Earth, but ruled by High King Finarfin in Valinor
> 
>  _ **Aman:**_ the continent to the west of Middle-Earth on which Valinor is located
> 
>  _ **Adar:**_ father [Sn]
> 
>  _ **ion-nín:**_ my son [Sn]
> 
>  _ **Eärendil:**_ half-elven son of Tuor and Idril; husband of Elwing; father of Elrond and Elros
> 
>  _ **Tuor:**_ husband of Idril
> 
>  _ **Idril:**_ the daughter of Turgon and Elenwë; princess of Gondolin; wife of the human man Tuor; mother of Eärendil; paternal grandmother of Elrond
> 
>  _ **Maedhros:**_  
>  oldest of Fëanor's seven sons; former High King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth before he abdicated the throne and gave it to Fingolfin; foster father of Elrond and Elros alongside his brother Maglor; cast himself into a fiery pit with a Silmaril, unable to bear the pain of its burns, and perished
> 
>  _ **Maglor:**_  
>  one of the greatest of the elven minstrels, second only to Daeron; second of Fëanor's seven sons; foster father of Elrond and Elros alongside his brother Maedhros; cast a Silmaril into the sea, unable to bear the pain of its burns; last noted to wander the shores of the ocean, singing of his sorrow and regret
> 
>  _ **Ereinion Gil-Galad:**_  
>  son of Orodreth and brother of Finduilas Faelivrin*; the last High King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth; perished during the siege of Sauron's Dark Tower  
> *In the published _Silmarillion_ , Gil-Galad is the son of Fingon. However, Tolkien's final intention was for Gil-Galad to be the son of Orodreth
> 
>  _ **Eru:**_ the creator god in Tolkien's legendarium, omnipotent and all-powerful; creator of the Valar, the Maiar, the elves, and men
> 
>  _ **Taniquetil:**_  
>  highest of the mountains of Pelóri; tallest peak in Arda
> 
>  _ **Ilmarin:**_  
>  the mansions of Manwë and Varda that were located on the summit of Taniquetil
> 
>  _ **Manwë:**_  
>  the king of the Ainur and of all of Arda; one of the Aratar; lord of the wind, husband of Varda and brother of Melkor
> 
>  _ **Varda:**_  
>  the Vala most revered by the elves; one of the Aratar; creator of the stars, queen of Arda, wife of Manwë
> 
>  _ **Eä:**_  
>  the Quenya name for the entire star system of Tolkien's legendarium
> 
>  _ **Finarfin:**_  
>  son of former High King of the Noldor, Finwë, and his second wife, Indis of the Vanyar, half-brother of a former High King of the Noldor, Fëanor, and full brother of a former High King of the Noldor, Fingolfin; king of the Noldor in Valinor; husband of Eärwen and father of Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor, and Galadriel
> 
>  _ **Eärwen:**_  
>  daughter of the king of the Teleri in Valinor, Olwë; queen of the Noldor in Valinor; mother of Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor, and Galadriel
> 
>  _ **Noldorin:**_ of the Noldor
> 
>  _ **Peredhel:**_ half-elven
> 
> ___
> 
> I admit that the pacing of the story has slowed down a little. Don't worry, in a few chapters, we'll have some Legolas/Eressëa interaction :)
> 
> * _Eressëa_ is pronounced 'e-ruh-SAY-ah'


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get another look at how Elrond is doing after the dream sequence with Nymíriel, and then we get some insight into Glorfindel's history and family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Abandonment issues, mentions of suicide, internalized sexism in culture, patriarchal society as most of Tolkien’s societies are  
> ___
> 
> I took some liberties with the “magic” system of Tolkien’s legendarium, since its very mysterious and we don’t really know much about it. (“Magic” is in quotes because in-universe, the word refers to dark powers such as the sorcery of Morgoth and Sauron. What I refer to as “magic” here is simply elvish ways of doing things, using the power that’s natural to their race, power that’s difficult for more “ordinary” beings to understand – hence why these more “ordinary” beings refer to it as “magic”.)  
> Nothing too in-depth, though – let’s hope it stays that way.
> 
> There are some details I included that are not considered canon (such as Glorfindel being Elenwë's brother - Glorfindel's canon ancestry is muddled), and some non-canon characters are mentioned as well. 
> 
>  
> 
> **A word of warning is fair game, here; this story will become _very_ heavy with lore of Tolkien's legendarium before the events of The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. If you haven't read at least _The Silmarillion_ , or have no in-depth knowledge of Tolkien's earlier histories (namely, periods Before the Creation of Arda, the Years of the Lamps, the Years of the Trees, the First Age, and the Second Age, then these references might become _extremely_ confusing.**

Elrond was not quite certain _what_ he was supposed to be doing, frankly.

He woke from his sleep, eyes flying open and sitting up abruptly, as if he’d had a nightmare.

Perhaps what had happened _could_ be considered a nightmare. No, no, it was even worse. It was even worse because it was entirely _real_. Before laying on the bed and closing his eyes, drifting into unconsciousness, Elrond had stretched his mind’s eye toward the connection he had with his daughter, as Lady Galadriel had taught him to. She told him that she had used it once before, imploring her father, King Finarfin in the Undying Lands, to look after Celebrían. Elrond had wept upon hearing that, hearing of his wife’s grandfather.

His connection with Nymíriel was faint and unused, her fëa familiar and yet foreign at the same time, as Galadriel had warned him it would be, and it strained him connect to her so, for never before had he had any desire to contact her by linking their fëar. But he had successfully managed the connection, grasping a thread and linking their souls. Then, he had lain on his bed and allowed himself to sink into a state of repose.

It had worked, as Galadriel assured him it would. He had opened his eyes to find himself in the midst of an unfamiliar forest, his vision obscured by the thick fog and the eerie silence that had settled over the trees unnerving him greatly. And yet, his heart had leaped for joy and hope, because it meant he had most likely succeeded. Thank the Valar, he could finally talk to Nymíriel and pry out of her just _where_ she was.

Except _now_ , that connection was gone, and all he had obtained was Nymíriel’s defensiveness, her senseless declaration that _they were done._ At least it seemed quite undeniable that she was not hurt . . .

_“I am saying that we are through.”_

_“I am saying that I am not coming back.”_

Elrond could scarcely even comprehend what Nymíriel meant; nay, he did not even want to _try,_ but even merely the slightest reflection upon her words, and the sinking feeling gnawing at his insides, they told him enough. And enough was far too much.

His daughter . . . she had been distant. _Too_ distant. She’d refused to tell him where she was; she had outright said that it was _not his business._ That Imladris was not where she belonged. That it was not _home._ The place, the valley, that she had been born in and had grown up in, was not _home._ To reject Imladris in such a manner . . . Elrond could not shake the horrible feeling that it was also to reject _him._ To reject Elladan, and Elrohir, and Arwen. Her family.

_“I am saying that I am not coming back.”_

She could not really . . . could not really mean she was _never_ coming back, could she? It could not be possible, it simply could not.

It would have been amazing, if not for the situation that he was in, how the world all but seemed to fall away as he pondered the matter of his wayward daughter. _“I am saying we are done”_ could not mean what he feared it meant, could it? _“I am saying that I am not coming back”_ could not mean _“I am never coming back”,_ could it?

No. No, he would never allow that. Never, not if it meant ascending above Ilúvatar Himself. Nymíriel might think it was over, she might _say_ that any connections between them were severed forever, but Elrond would not allow it to be so. Somehow, he would find her and bring her home, wherever in Middle-Earth she might be. He could not allow his daughter to just _leave_ him!

How many times had he been abandoned? By his father, whom he had only the faintest traces of memories of; wisps of long golden hair, flashes of deep blue eyes, a melodic voice, a gentle hand caressing his dark locks. The famous Eärendil the Mariner, whom the Eldar sung songs of worship and praise about, had always been an absent father. Too consumed with trying to find Valinor. Too preoccupied by his sea-longing. Why could he not see that his own family: Elwing, Elrond, and Elros, all _right there,_ had need of him, as well?

He had been abandoned by his mother, whom he could barely recall, as well; a kind, tender smile, long white-blonde hair always in tangles, a sweet voice that sang to him of the Music of the Ainur, from whence the world was created. Pale blue eyes, filled with love and protectiveness when they gazed upon him. And yet she had gone. When the Sons of Fëanor had attacked, when he and Elros were holding each other tightly, screaming and whimpering at the utter _brutality_ of it all, they heard . . . they did not see it, but they heard. That Elwing had flung herself from the cliffs and into the ocean, taking the Silmaril with her. Why had she not remained with them? To be with her sons?

He had been abandoned by Maedhros and Maglor, as well. Maedhros and Maglor, whom he knew better than he knew his own parents. _Them_ he could recall in perfect detail. Maedhros’ flame-red hair, cascading down his back in wavy tresses, yet so matted with grime and dirt and _blood_ when he came back from battle. The oldest son of Fëanor’s pale face, with its defined cheekbones and sharp, angular structure, Elrond had often seen splattered with blood as well. His blue-grey eyes had always been bright, full of sharp determination and resolve. Yet he’d been gentle as well, when he wished. His deep voice, so commanding and full of authority elsewhere, was a wonder at lulling one to sleep if he deemed it worth his time.

And Maglor with his long raven locks, unlike his brother’s in its smooth silkiness. Elrond recalled braiding Maglor’s hair once and feeling startled at just how _soft_ his foster father’s inky hair felt as he sifted the strands between his fingers. Yet Maglor’s hair, too, had been several times clotted with blood and filth. His face as well, softer angles than his brother’s and almost _pretty_ in its androgynous beauty, Elrond had seen covered in blood and streaked with dirt, mud, and even soot. His eyes were like Maedhros’, but paler, more silver than blue, and, to Elrond’s own eyes, always so full of weariness. Maglor had been gentle, too. Stroking Elrond’s hair and singing him lullabies until he drifted off to sleep.

But _they_ had abandoned him in the end, as well. They had given him and Elros to Gil-Galad, and Elrond remembered that he could not help thinking _why._ He wanted to stay with Maedhros and Maglor. They were like parents to he and Elros, so why were they sending them away? Of course, he knew now. It was for his safety, and Elrond’s, that Maedhros and Maglor had parted with them, and he had grown to love Gil-Galad greatly. Yet the bitterness had not completely left him, all these years later.

And Maedhros . . . Maedhros had ended his own life, casting himself into a pit of flames rather than surrender the jewel for which _so many_ had died. Elrond had not yet been born when the Silmarils were created by Fëanor; indeed, not even his _grandparents_ had been alive then. And yet he had heard enough of the horrors, the bloodshed, that the three brilliant gems had caused. And they had claimed another life in Maedhros. Maglor, he simply . . . _vanished_. The last any had heard of him, he had been wandering the shores of the sea, his hands scorched, his voice, akin to that of an Ainu, raised in sorrowful song. And then he was heard of no more. Elrond knew not what had happened to the second son of Fëanor, but the lack of any word about him made him imagine that Maglor was long dead. Perhaps had even ended his own life.

Then Elros. Even Elros, his own twin brother, had abandoned him; at least, Elrond could not help feeling such, though one might argue that it was just as valid to say that _Elrond_ had abandoned _Elros._ Elros, his beloved twin, the one who had been by his side since the beginning, had chosen to take the Fate of Men and had set sail from Lindon, following the Star of Eärendil. He had risen to become the first king of Númenor. And he was dead, had been for a long, long time, his kingdom sunken beneath the waves of the ocean, his soul far beyond the edges of the world, wherever the Secondborn traveled upon meeting their ends. And Elrond would never see him again in all the ages of the world.

Gil-Galad . . . Gil-Galad, his king, his friend, was also dead. Gil-Galad, who had patiently mentored him until he had perfected his skills with a sword, who had laughed heartily, yet never with mean spirit, as Elrond attempted to learn Quenya past the little that Maglor had taught and corrected his mistakes gently, who had told him tales of the sorrows and triumphs of the times before he was born, had fallen, too. As much as he wished to forget it, Elrond could not. His king, burned hideously at the hands of Sauron, his flesh blackened and the nauseating stench of overcooked meat making Elrond’s stomach roil and writhe, collapsing to the ground in a scalded, steaming, unmoving heap. He was gone, too. And Elrond could not but wonder if only he had been a little bit stronger, Gil-Galad need not have died.

Celebrían, his beloved, his One, who had filled his soul in its entirety with her brilliant presence, who had granted him his four children, each of them dearer and more wondrous and more perfect than Eru Ilúvatar Himself, had abandoned him as well, though it was no fault of her own. The blame lay with Elrond, himself. It was he who was responsible for the sailing of his wife. He should have sent her to Lothlórien with more guards, more protection. When the Orcs captured her, he should have been able to find her, somehow. She was his One, was she not? Their souls were connected, were they not? How could he have failed to locate her? How could he have allowed her to suffer for as long as she did? And when she at last returned . . . he had tried to heal her, he had tried. But he’d failed, her fëa had been fractured and cracked, and he had failed to heal it. It should have been within his realm of power, to heal his other half, yet he’d _failed_. And she had had no choice but to leave him, and their children, because he was too incompetent and too _weak –_

And now Nymíriel as well? No . . . _no_. He could not, _would not,_ fail _so utterly_ as a father that even his own daughter would abandon him. That even his own daughter would sooner leave behind her home, her siblings, _everything_ that had been a constant in her life since her birth, simply to _be away_ from him. His words to her, saying that if she were not his daughter . . . he had not meant it. No father had ever been more blessed with children so wonderful, and Nymíriel was not an exception, never had been. It made him so, _so_ unspeakably grateful that she was his daughter. No matter what he said, that would not change. And he could not be so terrible a father that she would truly want to leave _forever,_ could he?

He did not know what to think. If even his daughter, his own flesh and blood, wished not to associate herself with him again . . . just what was _the matter_ with him? What was so _wrong_ with him, that so many people would wish to abandon him?

Elrond took a deep, shuddering breath. He had thought he had managed to master these thoughts. They had not returned for years, not since right after Celebrían had departed into the West, and he had hoped that they would never trouble his mind again, for they made him feel weak and faint. But now, his daughter was gone, and as much as he liked not to acknowledge it, he feared that she had spoken to him words that implied eternal parting. And that . . . that was . . .

He knew not what he might have done then. Burst into tears? Struck the wall until his knuckles were bruised and bloody? Shrieked? Frankly, he was glad he would never know, for before his emotions boiled over and erupted, a knock on the door cut through his tumult.

Elrond hesitated. It took him a few moments to gather his composure, so overwhelmed with . . . he did not even know what he was feeling, but it was all manner of unpleasant emotions. But whatever those feelings were, they had _overwhelmed_ him, and ten seconds passed before he was able to compose himself sufficiently to receive anyone else. By then, whoever was outside had already knocked again. Elrond swallowed. “Who is it,” he called, his voice holding no sign of any curiosity. And truly, he was _not_ curious. In that moment, he would have liked nothing better than to curl up on the mattress, pull the blankets over his head like a frightened child that he had not been for millennia, and forget it all.

But he could not. He was a lord, and he had duties. And there were few times that he had hated that knowledge more than now.

“My lord, may I enter?” the voice was Erestor’s.

“A moment, please,” Elrond called, not wanting to meet his seneschal in such an emotionally unbalanced state. He suspected that his clothes, his hair, and his appearance were all in disarray as well. And while he was not particularly picky about how he presented himself, especially not with one he was quite close to, appearances had to be maintained.

Forcing himself from the bed and looking in the mirror, Elrond was unsure of whether he was surprised or unsurprised that he did not look _too_ disheveled. Certainly, his robes were a bit rumpled, but he smoothed them out easily enough, and certainly, his hair was a bit tousled from the friction between the black strands and the pillow, but nothing that combing his fingers through his locks a few times would not fix.

Picking his circlet up from where he had left it on his nightstand and placing it back onto the crown of his head so it settled about his brow, Elrond glanced at his reflection one more time, amazed that the most of his inner tumult was not visible on his stoic face. Well, it was a façade that he had had _quite_ a lot of practice in. It was a little bit pathetic, frankly, how many times he had made use of that regal mask.

Swallowing an utterly helpless sigh, he decided he looked satisfactory, strode (and he did not feel like _striding_ at all – if he must make any use of his feet at all, hobbling would probably best reflect the way he had been feeling since Nymíriel’s disappearance) to his door, and opened it to reveal Erestor. The older elf’s dark hair was down in a casual manner, save for two small braids tied behind his ears. His grey-green eyes were sharp as always, making Elrond, especially now, in this state, feel dulled and rusty in comparison.

Erestor wore simple blue robes, and he held no scroll or parchment or anything of the like. Elrond got the impression that it was no formal court matter. Relieved for small victories, he held the door open in invitation and greeted, “Erestor. What is on your mind?” Erestor accepted and stepped inside, but stopped Elrond from closing the door. “It is a brief thing,” his friend explained. “I am merely here to inform you that Glorfindel has returned.”

Elrond’s brows rose, unable to completely suppress the surprise that rippled through his veins, momentarily pushing away the hollow feeling of uncertainty. Glorfindel? Why would the ancient elf be here again? The last time they had spoken it had been when Arwen and Nymíriel were children, and Glorfindel had assured him then that the Valar had not sent him to deal with any such darkness as the darkness that had been spreading during Sauron’s tenure. What could be the reason for his presence this time? Of course, Elrond welcomed a visit from the emissary of the Valar, for they had become fast allies, and he trusted Glorfindel implicitly. But he also feared that his arrival might mean some other problem.

Perhaps another rise of Sauron? Its likelihood was very slim, but not _entirely_ unfathomable . . .

Eru help him. If he had to deal with another issue so colossal in the wake of Nymíriel’s disappearance and vague words, Elrond thought he might just throw himself from the tallest tower of Imladris and send himself to the Undying Lands by his own volition. “Do you know why he is here?” he asked through gritted teeth, unable to fully suppress his consternation.

“Not of his original intentions of coming here, no,” Erestor replied, making no hint that he realized how overwhelmed and simply _tired_ Elrond felt (though he suspected that his seneschal was simply ignoring it). “But you know how he usually is," continued Erestor. "He enjoys taking his time when coming to see you.” Elrond nodded. Glorfindel liked to frolic about in Imladris, even get to know some of the citizens, rather than come directly to him as soon as he arrived.

“Well, this time, he has come straight to you,” Erestor told him. “I informed him of Lady Nymíriel’s disappearance. He is extremely concerned.”

Glorfindel was here to discuss Nymíriel’s disappearance? The waning flicker of hope in Elrond’s chest suddenly grew stronger, like flames that had been fed. Was it possible that Glorfindel could locate his daughter? The possibility sent a rush of sudden energy surging through his veins, tearing through the dread like fire burning through ice. Perhaps it was not all hopeless, after all.

“Then I must meet him now,” Elrond decided, straightening, but the glint of concern in the gaze that Erestor panned him with gave him pause. Slightly confused as to why his councilor appeared so worried, Elrond glanced at the mirror and realized that his blue eyes had become bright with almost feverish intensity. If he was honest, he looked like he was approaching the line of madness. Perhaps he really _was_ ; it would not surprise him to discover that recent events had caused his sanity to slip. Trying to blink the too-bright gleam away, for he could not _appear_ mad, Elrond found that an exhausted sigh was insistently demanding that he let it out, and he was too weary to prevent it.

Erestor’s hand brushed his shoulder sympathetically, and although the councilor’s face remained neutral, Elrond appreciated the gesture of support, nonetheless. Still, it did little to ease his mind.

Leaving his chambers with Erestor following close behind, Elrond descended the many staircases of his keep (trying not to hobble as his drained energy levels seemed to be demanding of him) and arrived at the guest hall. Opening a small side door and stepping into the large audience chamber that the hall contained, he spotted Glorfindel – unmistakable to any who had even glanced at him once before by the brilliant golden locks that were his namesake – sitting at the far end on the guest chair, expression pensive. It took little thought to deduce what it was that had the usually lighthearted elf looking so grave.

Glorfindel stood as he noticed Elrond’s approach. He was dressed for travel, in a simple cream-white tunic, white trousers that hugged his legs loosely, allowing for a wide range of leg movement, and travel boots. His brown cloak, however, was off and carelessly slung on the chair next to him, and strapped to his belt were a sword and a dagger.

“Eärendilion,” Glorfindel greeted, bowing his head briskly as he spoke his customary name for Elrond. The name was familiar, yet still odd. Elrond was unsure of how he felt to be referred to as the son of Eärendil. To him, the name Eärendil bore less resemblance to that of a father and more resemblance to a figure of legend, the epic hero of countless songs and tales, the almost _entity_ behind the Star of Eärendil. And the man had never been a father to him, intentionally or not. Elrond was used to Glorfindel’s characteristic greeting for him, but, truth be told, it rang rather peculiar, even to this day.

“Greetings, Glorfindel.” His voice was embarrassingly desperate – well, “embarrassingly” under normal circumstances. But Nymíriel was missing. His daughter, his very own flesh and his very own blood, was missing, and in front of him stood an elf who might be able to find her. All sense of shame or dignity paled in comparison.

The golden-haired elf’s eyes flashed, concern deepening in their blue depths. He could no doubt hear the zeal in Elrond’s tone. “I hear Nymíriel is missing,” he said. “Do you have any inkling at all where she must have gone too?”

Elrond hated – _hated_ – to admit it or acknowledge it, but he had almost none. She was not in the Weather Hills, that much was certain, nor was she in Greenwood, as Elladan and Elrohir, who had recently arrived from Thranduil’s realm, had spoken no word of seeing her. And Nymíriel knew that her brothers had been fostering in Greenwood. She would not go there. He shook his head no, swallowing the desperation that once again threatened to boil over.

Frustration passed over Glorfindel’s face at his response. The ancient elf took a deep breath, presumably to calm himself, and a thoughtful expression floated over his face. Elrond watched him, pensive. Was he thinking of ways with which they could possibly track Nymíriel? Surely there must be something?

But . . . truly, what exactly _was_ there that Glorfindel could do? Might he know some arts that Elrond did not? Gil-Galad had taught him a fair deal, and so had Lady Galadriel, but Elrond was aware of how youthful he was in comparison to Glorfindel. He did not _feel_ young; indeed, he was not. He had seen all three ages under the sun pass. But Glorfindel – and Lady Galadriel, for that matter – was entirely on a different scale. He had seen the Ainur, and he had seen the light of the Two Trees. He was more ancient than the sun and the moon themselves.

The older elf at last spoke, his voice hesitant, contemplative, as if he was weighing some matter in his mind. “I believe . . . there is a way,” he said, and Elrond felt his heart leap in hope inside his chest. So potent was the emotion that he thought this might be how men who nearly drowned felt when they managed to break the surface and gulp air into their lungs, saved from the clutches of a quite literally suffocating death.

“There is a way,” Glorfindel repeated, “and I know I will find it. But I must have some time.”

Disappointment seeped through, yet the euphoric dash of hope was not totally diminished, either. Time . . . yes, time. He need only be patient, Elrond told himself, and he would be reunited with Nymíriel. The anxiety was such that he did not know how long he could wait, but it was something he would have to do. There was no other choice in the matter.

And Eru, when he finally had Nymíriel back in his reach, he would embrace her and apologize profusely for his words. How was it that he could have been so thoughtless, so cruel, to her? He had been angry and frustrated and grieved, but it was still no excuse to say something so vile to his daughter.

_“Leave my sight, Nymíriel. If you were not my daughter, this would not have happened.”_

Thinking of just _what it was_ he had said, Elrond battled with the sudden compulsion to deal himself a good, swift blow to the jaw. He deserved nothing less, being so hurtful to Nymíriel. He could hardly blame her for running away, but he simply . . . he simply could not bear the thought of losing her as he had lost so many others before her. Left behind by his own child, and _because_ of _his_ vicious words, _his_ senselessness, at that – Elrond did not think he could live with the knowledge that he had driven his _daughter_ away from him.

“Adar!”

Elrohir’s voice pulling him out from his thoughts, Elrond turned toward the door of the audience hall (the same small side door that he’d used to enter, as well), which had opened again to reveal Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen hurrying toward him, Erestor, and Glorfindel. He felt a ferocious surge of protectiveness envelop his body as he laid eyes upon his remaining three children, who might become the only three people he had left in the world, and abruptly, the desire to sweep them all into his embrace was nearly _maddening_ in its intensity. But, mindful of Glorfindel and Erestor and his own image, Elrond restrained himself, stood still, as his children approached.

Glorfindel smiled, although the weariness in his eyes did not fade, and opened his arms to Elladan and Elrohir, looping a hand around both their shoulders reassuringly. “You have both grown,” he commented, fondness lacing his voice as he released them.

“We are the same height that we were when you last saw us, Glorfindel,” Elrohir put in, his no-nonsense words belied by his playful tone.

Glorfindel chuckled, but he sounded tired. “Grown in spirit,” he corrected himself and turned his attention to Arwen, who was staring shyly, though her smile was courteous. Despite his less-than-stellar psychological condition, Elrond could not help the smile that rose on his face as well. Arwen had always been timid with those that she was not close with. And besides that, Glorfindel had not returned to Rivendell since Arwen and Nymíriel had been but little children. He’d met Arwen then, but there was a difference between a little elfling and the nearly grown woman that Arwen was now.

“Lady Arwen,” Glorfindel bowed, took her hand, and touched his lips to her knuckles briefly. Arwen’s pale cheeks flushed deep crimson, but otherwise her politeness and grace were impeccable as she curtsied in return. “Lord Glorfindel.” Her voice was soft and courteous. Elrond suspected she’d inherited his coolness towards acquaintances from him; Celebrían had always been the more easily charming between the two of them as well, a trait that she’d passed to Nymíriel.

He resolutely ignored the nauseating pang that accompanied the thoughts of his wife and youngest daughter.

“Glorfindel, about Nymíriel,” spoke Elladan. His blue gaze was hopeful as he looked at the ancient elf. “Have you, perchance, found a possible way to locate her?”

“I have some inkling,” replied the golden-haired elf thoughtfully, “but nothing concrete or certain as of yet, unfortunately.” Elrond saw the same mixture of hope and disappointment roiling in him reflected in his children’s eyes at Glorfindel’s words. He might have been Nymíriel’s father, but his other children were her siblings. How must they feel at the moment?

Elladan’s face fell into brooding, a dark expression that Elrond had not seen him wear since Celebrían had keep taken captive by orcs. Elrohir’s fists clenched as his normally cheerful son did when he was especially distressed or angry. Arwen paced, her skirts swishing behind her as she changed directions rapidly again and again, her delicate brows pulled toward each other in an uncharacteristic scowl. Shadow seemed to creep over the audience chamber at his children’s sudden gloom, and Glorfindel’s strained expression coupled with Erestor’s stony silence, not to mention Elrond’s own state of distress, did nothing to improve matters.

Unable to bear the gravity of the whole situation, Elrond broke the silence, turning to Glorfindel. “Do you have an idea of how long it will be until you have ascertained a method to find my daughter?” he asked, fighting down the dread that surged unpleasantly through his veins at the thought that Glorfindel might not know _that_. Could he live with the impatience? He highly doubted it; already he felt as if his blood might boil in his veins and cause him to combust.

“I cannot promise anything,” Glorfindel replied, his tone a hint apologetic. Elrond’s heart dropped.

“But,” the golden-haired elf amended, and Elrond almost wanted to shout at Glorfindel for the steep plummeting and then abrupt soaring that his back-and-forth words were causing his feelings to experience. “It should not take too long. At most . . . a week, I suppose?”

A week. A week? Elrond weighed in his imagination the idea of seven days and seven nights. Seven days and seven nights spent fretting over Nymíriel’s safety, not knowing if she’d somehow gotten injured after their dreamwalking together. Seven days and seven nights spent with his daughter perhaps getting further and further away. Seven nights before there was anything that could be done about his daughter fleeing her home and fleeing from _him._ It seemed impossibly long, stretching out before him like some cruel, bleak, stony path.

But he would have to wait, would he not? What choice did he have? He had not the skill to track her himself.

“Very . . . very well,” he accepted (again, it was not as if there was an alternative), stumbling over his words as he had not done since adolescence. Although his body was as light and manageable as it had ever been for one of the Eldar, mentally and emotionally, he felt extremely fatigued, extremely unsteady, extremely exhausted, despite the fact that he had been asleep not over an hour ago.

Glorfindel must have noticed his weariness, for his gaze was empathetic. “I will think on it right away,” he assured Elrond, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Excuse me now.” He left the audience chamber for the direction leading back outside the keep with a beautiful flourish of his golden hair, shining despite his plain, almost drab clothes. The sight would have been worth a marvel were Elrond not feeling so desperate and anxious. As it stood, he merely sat heavily down on a nearby seat, mind disturbingly blank and numb. He could not think. Or perhaps, more accurately, he did not want to. The reality that Nymíriel was missing and he could do nothing but _wait_ was both painfully clear and frustratingly difficult to grasp.

“Elrond, you are pale,” Erestor commented, his stoic tone tinged with barely concealed worry. “I shall return with some chamomile tea.” Before Elrond could protest, saying that he was alright, his seneschal swept out of the hall with a meaningful glower of his sharp green eyes that Elrond recognized easily enough, despite the fact that he had not seen it since before Elladan and Elrohir were born. _Listen to me this time._ And really, he did not at the moment possess the energy or will to defy him.

So he remained all but slumped on the seat, staring at the opposite hall in reluctant acceptance of the horrible circumstances that he felt he was sinking in. Not _all_ was terrible, of course; Glorfindel was here and was trying to think of a way, but still . . . the uncertainty was driving him to the edge.

“Father,” Arwen sat down next to him, her expression shadowed. Looking at her now, when it was only the four of them together and no one else, Elrond could see the stress and concern etched into her face. She somehow looked spent and worn despite the fact that his daughter was just on the cusp of physical maturity and would not be changing much for the several millennia to come. She looked like she had aged a decade. Elladan and Elrohir were no better, their brows pulled down in identical scowls of exhaustion and worry, their mouths set in tight, grim lines.

Elrond wondered how he must appear at the moment.

“My children.” He was almost shocked at how his voice rasped, how utterly haggard he sounded now that he felt less need to maintain the façade of relative indifference. He suspected his children were shocked, too, from the subtle widening of Arwen’s eyes to the clenched jaws of Elladan and Elrohir, but it did not matter. They were all being consumed with their worry for Nymíriel, and they were all far too exhausted to conceal it any longer.

Elrond opened his arms, and his three remaining children practically fell into them, their weight and warmth comforting him, if only by the slightest amount. He inhaled deeply, savoring each of their distinct scents, but the rush of contentment at the feeling of Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen in his embrace was negated by the sharp, emptying pang that struck him as his brain processed the lack of Nymíriel amongst them.

Elrond closed his eyes tightly, wanting to lose himself in his remaining children’s presence. He wanted to forget all of his sorrows, smothering every last one of them in their arms. From the way they clung to him, burying their faces in his shoulders, in the crook of his neck, he was certain that they felt the same way. Their fëar reached out, all four of them, blanketing and soothing each other in a tight embrace that extended beyond the physical realm and into the Unseen. Elrond _felt_ the cradling of his children’s spirits enveloping him just as they _felt_ the cradling of his spirit enveloping them.

If only Nymíriel’s fëa could be felt, as well. And Celebrían’s. If only. Then it would all be perfect, flawless.

“Adar . . .” It was Elladan’s voice, and Elrond realized his son was crying, could feel the hot tears streaming from Elladan’s eyes and soaking through the material of his robes. No, he realized, not merely Elladan – all of his children were weeping. And he was weeping. He was weeping as well, his vision blurred when he opened his eyes again, his cheeks wet and tingling from the drops sliding down his skin. He closed his eyes once more, even tighter this time, and almost involuntarily, his grip on his children tightened, as well. A sob rose from his compressed, aching chest and up his throat, escaping through his mouth, and he bothered not trying to stop it.

And suddenly they were all sobbing. They were all crying, fingers clutching tighter to each other and broken, mournful wails increasing in volume as their grief and frustration and stress all-so-abruptly spiraled out of their ability to control. Elrond was still leaning back in the chair, and his children were gathered somewhere in the space between his open and extended arms, half-leaning on him and half-supported by each other, not quite standing but not quite sitting. They were, all of them, tangled together in one ungraceful heap of limbs and torsos and heads. And _sobs._ The sobs were so intense, so gripping, that Elrond could feel the entire pile of them trembling with each cry, and that sensation, in turn, strengthened his own sobbing, strengthened his children’s sobbing, until they were all nearly shuddering from the combined force. It was a wonder that all of them did not collapse into a tangle on the ground.

Such was the sight that Erestor returned to the audience chamber to find. And later, when he had recovered his composure enough, Elrond would be grateful that Erestor had been understanding enough to simply place the tea on a nearby chair and walk away as if he had never seen anything. He did not even mention the scene once.

* * *

Laurefindil was suddenly unsure.

As he left behind Elrond’s keep and strode blindly – yes, blindly – through Imladris, seeking for a place where he could be alone with his thoughts, he could not help questioning the direction in which his thoughts were turning. Some part of him felt wretched, awful, for even daring to contemplate it.

It had been a wonderful thing, to see Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen again. Truly, the twins seemed to have matured in spirit, although they looked much the same as when he had last seen them, but Arwen had grown into a truly stunning young woman – worthy, he imagined, of the label she shared with her twin sister of being Lúthien Tinúviel come again upon Arda. Were he not feeling so conflicted the delight he felt at seeing Elrond’s children (three out of four of them, that was) again would have been much more prevalent in his mind, but right now he could not focus on that.

For he was wondering . . . would it _truly_ be best that Nymíriel was found and returned to Imladris? Guilt curdled in his stomach like sour milk at the fact that he was thinking such thoughts after witnessing firsthand just how distressed Elrond was, and how distressed his children were. Laurefindil had never been a parent, but Elenwë was his sister, and the feeling that had enveloped him when he turned and saw her body plummeting off the cliffs of the Helcaraxë was indescribable. She might be re-embodied now, alive and well and with her family, but . . . Laurefindil would never forget that _feeling._ He _knew_ , all too well, what it was like to be a sibling. Elenwë was his older sister, not his younger, but the protectiveness he felt towards her was undeniable nonetheless, even after so many years. He could only imagine how he would feel if she ran away out of the blue and left no trace in her wake.

And by Eru, a _parent_. . . how much worse must it feel?

It might be right and proper to condemn Nymíriel for her recklessness and all the worry that she was causing her family, but Laurefindil found himself wondering _why_ she had fled Imladris. What reason might possibly drive that child to abandon the place she had grown up in, and her family? Perhaps most would have no inkling, no answer, but Laurefindil himself felt that on some level, he might understand.

It was merely intuition, nothing more, but Laurefindil found that he suspected that Nymíriel had grown into an adventurous young woman. He did, after all, recall her easy exuberance and charm with strangers when they had met while she was a child. That free-spiritedness, wading into a stream by herself, without even her parents about to watch her. Laurefindil had lived a long, long time, and one thing he had grown accustomed to was the certain standards that most female Eldar of noble lineage were held to. And if Nymíriel had retained her flightiness over the years, he could not imagine that she grew to conform well to such expectations. It might be that he was making too many assumptions, but such was what his instincts told him, and Laurefindil was not in the habit of ignoring his instincts.

And he suspected that a nature such as Nymíriel’s, difficult to tie down and given to flights of fancy, would clash heavily with Elrond. The son of Eärendil had endured far too much sorrow and far too much loss in his short life. Well, Elrond was not _young_ , but to Laurefindil he _was,_ yet the Lord of Imladris had already lost his mother, his father, his foster fathers, his twin brother, his king and friend, _and_ his wife. As well as he hid it, Elrond was scarred. According to Elenwë, it was a difficult task for all parents to release their children into the world, placing some amount of trust in them to fend for themselves and be independent. And for Elrond, Laurefindil could not help imagining that it might be _especially_ onerous, due, in no small amount, to his past.

And then, as if to exacerbate that issue, if Nymíriel was extraordinarily independent – and she had certainly struck Laurefindil as such, even when she was a child – she would thrash and writhe under _any_ attempt to keep her safe and near. Eru only knew how much she might resent a degree of protectiveness such as Elrond’s. Of course, that protectiveness stemmed from pain and loss, as well as love, but Laurefindil wondered if Nymíriel truly understood that. She was young, very young, for one of the Eldar. _And_ she had been born in and lived all her life in an age of peace, after Sauron’s defeat. It would be no easy task for her to understand her father.

And Laurefindil _understood_ that. For he, too, had not the best relationship with his parents. They had always stifled him and his sister, treating them as if they had never grown from being little elflings. The room Elenwë had called her own prior to her marriage to Lord Turukáno had been one fit for a little girl, try as she had to change it, and their parents had not bothered to even discard the items inside; items that Elenwë had scarcely even used. In a corner was a large assortment of plush animals and toys, on the nightstand a pink music box, and in another corner there was a plastic set of teacups and small plates. Never mind that _never_ had Elenwë been interested in such things. His sister enjoyed books, crafting, knitting, and dancing. She did not have any fancy for stuffed animals and plastic china sets, even when she was a child. 

And Laurefindil’s own room. As the heir of the house, he had remained in his parents’ estate until he abandoned his inheritance and made the decision to accompany Lord Aracáno’s people across the Helcaraxë. And the day he left it behind for what he vowed would be the rest of his life, the room had been filled with sets of toy soldiers, toy swords, toy lances, and a hobby horse. Now, unlike his sister, Laurefindil had liked all of these trinkets, once. He’d _enjoyed_ playing with them, reenacting childish battles with the toy soldiers, giggling gleefully to himself, waving the wooden swords and lances about pretending to be a great lord and commander in King Ingwë’s service. But naturally, as he had matured, he had wished to clear out that which he used for games in childhood and replace them with books (for he loved them as his sister did), palettes and canvases (for he enjoyed painting), and a _real_ sword, one he had received from King Ingwë himself.

But his parents – they had refused, ordering the servants never to do such a thing, and said servants were too afraid to disobey. And when Laurefindil had attempted to take matters into his own hands and bring the toys out of his chamber himself to place in the storage, his father had chanced upon him, and never before had Laurefindil seen Inwisto so irate. His father had ripped the toys of his childhood from his hands, stormed back to his chamber and nearly trampling over a poor servant boy, dumping everything back onto the floor next to his bed and glaring at Laurefindil.

 _“If I_ ever,” he’d hissed, “ _ever see you showing such ingratitude and trying to dispose of everything I so painstakingly purchased for_ you _, with_ your _enjoyment in mind, you will regret it.”_ His mother, Varniel, had been no more sympathetic, and Laurefindil had been utterly unable to believe the ridiculousness of his parents. He was no longer a _child!_ And he was not even trying to _throw away_ his childhood toys, merely take them out of his room! And his father’s words – so _painstakingly?_ As if buying toys was something difficult!

Even after that, Laurefindil had, on multiple occasions, attempted to rid his chambers of the toys of his boyhood. He need not have discarded them; it had merely been his intention to store them away, perhaps to pass to children of his own, or to any children Elenwë might have. His sister had made similar attempts as well, tiring of all the girlish playthings overflowing in her chambers. But both of their efforts had, time and time again, been thwarted by either their parents or servants obeying their parents’ instructions.

And that was not all. Besides the toys, Inwisto and Varniel had _ever_ treated Laurefindil and Elenwë as children. Always coddling, always fretting over their safety if they so much as wished to visit the marketplace without servants accompanying them. Always coming into their rooms in the morning to wake them, even after Laurefindil and Elenwë had long since begun to wake themselves far earlier in the day than the times that their parents entered to rouse them from sleep. And what was even worse, their parents, at times, became _annoyed_ to find that Laurefindil and his sister were perfectly capable of waking without their everyday wake-up calls. For Eru’s sake, they were not children. They had not been children for centuries.

In the end, Elenwë had wed Lord Turukáno and left their parents’ estate, coddling, and patronizing behind. She was glad of it, she told Laurefindil as she swept out of the house with all the items she’d deemed worth taking with her, wishing her parents a brisk and curt goodbye before ridding her life their estate, and her _still_ childishly decorated room, forever. Laurefindil had been glad, as well, to see his sister leave their parents’ stifling influence, yet he could not help envying her as well. As heir to the house and the estates, the woman he wed would come to live with him in his father’s estates, meaning he could never truly leave his parents’ grasp.

Laurefindil had despaired over it. The prospect that he might never escape Inwisto and Varniel was maddening. How long must he wait, to slip out from under the suffocating grasps of his parents? Would the opportunity even come to him at all?

That was why, when the chance to leave Valinórë had presented itself, Laurefindil had not hesitated. His sister was going as well, accompanying her husband and her young daughter, Laurefindil's niece, which had served as an added incentive. At last, a reprieve, a chance to forge his own path and cast away his parents’ crushing tyranny over his life! And it certainly hurt not that the entire expanse of Middle-Earth awaited him, glowing with possibility and adventure. He had known not what might befall him across the Helcaraxë, but it provided such massive _opportunity._ And so, he had gone, deaf to his father’s shouting, his mother’s pleas.

Laurefindil’s title in Ondolindë had been _Lord of the House of Laurea_ _lóte_ – _Lord of the House of Golden Flower_ , in Common Speech, but the “House of Golden Flower” was not a name that he had taken from his birth house, the house of his father. No, that house was the House of Ñaltanáre, the House of Radiant Fire; a name that he had wished to cast from himself eternally. A name he, in truth, _still_ wished to cast from himself eternally. Now that he was older, more experienced, he thought he might understand the thought process of his parents. Force him to remain a child forever. That way he would remain innocent, pure, naïve, and avoid being faced with the biting, acidic cruelty of the world. Even Valinórë itself was not a place of perfection. Even there, one’s innocence could not help but be soiled. He could comprehend, he could see, what his parents had been thinking, which was more than he would have possibly been able to do before leaving Valinórë. But he still found himself unable to forgive them for the way they had trapped him, caged him, smothered him in their own selfish desire to see him remain their beloved little _child_ forever, and for doing the same to his sister. As if they could not accept him and his sister growing up and becoming their _own_ people.

And so he had accepted the role of becoming an emissary of the Valar. In exchange for his service he was awarded a high status in the court of King Ingwë, estates and servants of his own, and most importantly, he was allowed to retain his title as Lord of the House of Laurealóte, a name to pass down to his children, if ever he had any. Never again would Laurefindil be considered – at least officially – to be an heir of the House of Ñaltanáre, and it was by his own request that that had come to pass. He did not regret it. He regretted his sullied relationship with his parents, the fact that he had to begrudge them, but he did not feel guilty for begrudging them in itself. And he did not feel guilty for renouncing his father’s house and any right to inherit it.

In short, Laurefindil was no stranger to being at odds with one’s parents, and he could not help wonder if Nymíriel was facing a similar problem that had prompted her to flee. Of course, Elrond was nowhere near as oppressive as Laurefindil's own parents had been, but nonetheless . . . the crux of the issue remained the same. If indeed his wild assumptions were correct, he found himself relating to Nymíriel’s plight.

And, truthfully, in Laurefindil’s experience, never was it truly a good thing, attempting to shield one’s children from the world. His parents had given their all to do so with him and Elenwë, to the point that he almost considered them _insane_ for their excessive methods. Yet here they both were; they had experienced fear for their lives, the deaths of loved ones, the destruction of places precious to them, their _own_ deaths, and the gnawing agony of leaving behind those you wished to remain forever by the side of. Laurefindil was far from the young man that he had been when leaving Valinórë, and Elenwë was as changed as he was. Their parents’ attempts had amounted to nothing.

One way or another, innocence crumbled in the wake of life. It was not necessarily a bad thing, as one might automatically think – in fact, Laurefindil might even go as far as to say that such a process was natural. Trying to shield one’s child, or anyone else, from such a process was useless. In fact, Laurefindil was of the opinion that it could do only harm.

He sighed as he stumbled through the archway leading to the Spring of Celebrindal, so deep in thought that the customary grace of the Eldar was missing from his movements. He felt true, genuine sympathy for Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen’s anguish, and conventional morality suggested what he was thinking right now was very wrong. Yet . . . if all that he had presumed was correct, then he had to wonder . . .

Laurefindil sat next to the running water of the spring, staring at a spot in the water a few feet downriver from him where Nymíriel had been standing when he’d first met her, four decades ago.

If he managed to track her – and he was confident that he could – would it truly be the best course of action to bring her back to Imladris?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Finarfin:**_ son of former High King of the Noldor, Finwë, and his second wife, Indis of the Vanyar, half-brother of a former High King of the Noldor, Fëanor, and full brother of a former High King of the Noldor, Fingolfin; king of the Noldor in Valinor; husband of Eärwen and father of Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor, and Galadriel  
>  _ **Eärendil:**_ half-elven son of Tuor and Idril; husband of Elwing; father of Elrond and Elros  
>  _ **Elwing:**_ granddaughter of Beren and Lúthien, daughter of Dior and Nimloth; wife of Eärendil; mother of Elrond and Elros  
>  _ **Elros:**_ twin brother of Elrond; chose the Fate of Men and became the first ruling king of Númenor; an ancestor of Aragorn  
>  _ **Music of the Ainur:**_ also known as the Ainulindalë; the song of Eru and the Ainur that created the universe  
>  _ **Fëanor:**_ a Noldorean elf of legend, son of former High King of the Noldor, Finwë, and his first wife, Míriel Þerindë, half-brother of the former High King of the Noldor, Fingolfin, and current High King of the Noldor (in Valinor), Finarfin, whose oath of recovering his greatest creations, the Silmarilli, led directly to the ruin of his seven sons and directly or indirectly to the great deeds and great sorrows of the First Age  
>  _ **Silmarils:**_ the three most beautiful jewels in the history of Arda that contained the light of the Two Trees in Valinor, crafted by Fëanor; their theft, along with the murder of High King Finwë at the hands of Morgoth, resulted in the Oath of Fëanor  
>  _ **Maedhros:**_ oldest of Fëanor's seven sons; former High King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth before he abdicated the throne and gave it to Fingolfin; foster father of Elrond and Elros alongside his brother Maglor; cast himself into a fiery pit with a Silmaril, unable to bear the pain of its burns, and perished  
>  _ **Maglor:**_ one of the greatest of the elven minstrels, second only to Daeron; second of Fëanor's seven sons; foster father of Elrond and Elros alongside his brother Maedhros; cast a Silmaril into the sea, unable to bear the pain of its burns; last noted to wander the shores of the ocean, singing of his sorrow and regret  
>  _ **Ereinion Gil-Galad:**_ son of Orodreth and brother of Finduilas Faelivrin; the last High King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth; perished during the siege of Sauron's Dark Tower  
>  _ **Lindon:**_ a region of Gil-Galad's kingdom; later came under the lordship of Círdan  
>  _ **Star of Eärendil:**_ the light of the Silmaril that Eärendil has, shining as he circles the heavens  
>  _ **Númenor:**_ an island kingdom established by Elros from which Aragorn is descended; sunk below the waves due to Eru's will after its people fell under Sauron's influence and attempted to lay siege on Valinor  
>  _ **Eärendilion:**_ son of Eärendil  
>  _ **Two Trees of Valinor:**_ the sources of light created by the Valar before the sun and moon; destroyed by Morgoth and Ungoliant  
>  _ **Lúthien Tinúviel:**_ the half-elf, half-Maia daughter of Elu Thingol and Melian; princess of Doriath; maternal great-grandmother of Elrond  
>  _ **Arda:**_ the Quenya name for the world  
>  _ **Elenwë:**_ a Vanyarin elf; wife of Turgon, mother of Idril Celebrindal; perished during the crossing of the Helcaraxë  
>  _ **Turukáno =**_ Turgon [Q], a son of Fingolfin and brother of Fingon, Aredhel, and Argon; the king of Gondolin; the father of Idril Celebrindal; paternal great-grandfather of Elrond; perished in the Fall of Gondolin  
>  _ **Aracáno:**_ Fingolfin [Q], younger half-brother of Fëanor and older full-brother of Finarfin; second son of former High King of the Noldor, Finwë, and first son by Finwë's second wife, Indis; father of Fingon, Turgon, Argon, and Aredhel; former High King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth; died in one-on-one combat against Morgoth  
>  _ **Helcaraxë:**_ the "Grinding Ice", a perilous icy wasteland lying between Valinor and Middle-Earth; crossed by Fingolfin's people after Fëanor broke his promise to send back ships for them and instead burned said ships  
>  _ **Ingwë:**_ king of the Vanyar  
>  _ **Valinórë:**_ Valinor [Q]  
>  _ **Ondolindë:**_ Gondolin [Q], an ancient elvish city built by Turgon that stood during the First Age, serving as a safe haven for the Eldar against Morgoth; fell to Morgoth's forces after inner treachery  
> ___  
> It looks like Glorfindel is having second thoughts, hm? I'm curious as to how that will affect the story's future.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ristadis,” Eressëa asked, “Forgive me for being too direct, but is King Thranduil a good king?” In honesty, she was not really being direct at all; her true question was “What do you think of King Thranduil”, but such a way of wording her inquiry seemed to more strongly communicate her ulterior motive and asking, and Eressëa did not want Ristadis to pick up on the fact that she was, in essence, using her for information. That had the potential to make it significantly more difficult to reach her goal of finding out information about the king through her new acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eressëa ends up reflecting on some of the historical figures of Arda, and then she is called to dine with Thranduil and Legolas for the day.

_I am tired of spending all day in a room,_ Eressëa thought, a touch irritable as she paced about her chambers, the book she had been reading before Thranduil’s visit abandoned at the corner of the bed. It had been an interesting read, no doubt, and one that she would certainly revisit and look more into. But at the moment, now that her melancholy was more or less dispelled (and surprisingly, she found herself thanking the king in part for that), the sudden realization of how long she had remained inside this one room had dawned on her. And so now she was walking back and forth about like a caged animal.

The room, much to her appreciation, was large and luxurious, no doubt, and it did not feel cramped or anything of the like. But Eressëa wanted to run at the moment. She wanted to feel the acceleration of her heartbeat, the delightful strain in her lungs and rise of her temperature that accompanied a period of physical activity and exercise. It had not been an extremely lengthy amount of time, truth be told, but she nevertheless felt that it had been too long since she’d been able to indulge her enjoyment of the more athletic aspects.

But that appeared quite impossible at the moment, considering the door leading out to the room was locked. And Eressëa might still be reckless, but she was not foolish enough to attempt to sneak out and avoid anyone’s detection when the king was already on uncertain grounds about her motives. The last thing she needed was to make herself appear suspicious. It felt to her as if Thranduil was beginning to trust her, or at the very least, adjust to her presence, and she had no intention of ruining the little progress they’d made between each other.

So, in an attempt to distract herself, she sat curled up (“like a feline”, Elladan had been fond of telling Nymíriel) on the mattress of the bed, reviewing in her head the many, many lessons that Nymíriel had taken in Imladris. Erestor had been Nymíriel’s primary tutor. Of course, he was stern and no-nonsense, and the curtness of his nature that was so often reflected in his keen green eyes had, admittedly, intimidated Nymíriel during the early stages of their acquaintance. But he was also very intelligent, dedicated, and hardworking, and Nymíriel had respected him tremendously. And like it or not, so too did Eressëa.

He had taught her (them?) much, and it was with a hint of sadness that Eressëa recalled his merciless lessons and strict methods. In summary, Erestor had no sympathy of slothfulness. Nymíriel’s childhood complaints of being tired, or hungry, or uninterested, methods that had had _some_ form of effect on her other tutors, and even Lord Elrond, at times, had been absolutely useless against Erestor. Perhaps it seemed more apt that Nymíriel grew to resent Erestor’s unfailing sense of determination to educate her to the best of his ability, but strangely, Eressëa remembered that she had never borne Erestor any ill will. The worst emotion she had felt because of him was that of being vaguely cowed at his businesslike manner, and that had quickly faded away.

Perhaps it was because Nymíriel quickly grew to enjoy most of what Erestor taught, not the least thanks to the fact that he was and excellent teacher. Despite his curtness he had patience and the ability to enunciate his thoughts with clarity, which was a great asset in understanding what his lessons meant. And Erestor was extremely erudite. History, mathematics, language, medicine, science – Erestor had a talent for all, and Nymíriel had greedily absorbed the wealth of knowledge that he’d offered her, delighted at all that she was learning. They were all fascinating, she had felt. Nymíriel had also delighted in applying what her tutor taught her; often, she would mumble historical facts to herself when in need of entertainment, or help her father in calculating the fluctuating expenses of Imladris, or translate passages of books she was reading to Quenya, or wander into the outskirts beyond the borders in search of herbs to see, touch, taste, and smell with her own eyes, or conducting little experiments to satiate the curiosities that came up here and there. She could not place why and was not even sure a reason needed to exist for that. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that the talent she had displayed in the arts of the Unseen had suddenly vanished, with no visible cause. She had wanted to be good at _something._

And Eressëa could not change the fact that most of Nymíriel remained with her. She, too, found learning, _any_ learning, to be an utter delight, which was the reason that books appealed to her so. It was a simple sentiment, really – she just wanted to know more, and more, and _more._ Without knowledge there was little meaning to life. Perhaps that was why Nymíriel respected Erestor so, why _she_ respected Erestor so. He had studied, he had learned, and had much to show for it.

How nice it would be to have a tutor as wonderful as Erestor at the moment. He might have been serious, but he was never boring. His lessons quickly captivated Nymíriel, stolen her attention and time and effort, and that was a fact that she had swiftly come to appreciate. It seemed peculiar, enjoying the fact that her education consumed so much of her life, but Erestor had been that good to her. Truly, thought Eressëa, there would never be another like him. But, unfortunately, he was not here now, and never would she see him again.

 _I suppose that means I must teach myself,_ Eressëa thought, wondering just how she was going to go about in doing that. She still could not leave the guest chamber without Thranduil’s permission, and while there were plenty of books locked in with her, she doubted they were geared toward educational purposes. She feared that if she did not review what she had learned over the years, then she would lose it, sooner or later. So what must she do? Try to gain Thranduil’s trust? Eressëa disliked that idea. The idea of _trying_ to gain somebody’s trust made the process itself seem forced, and the last thing she wanted was to try strong-arming the king into trusting her. Trust should come naturally, else it was not truly trust.

To make matters worse, she had little idea on how much Thranduil trusted her. It appeared that he did not believe her malicious, considering he had offered her solace for her grief over her parents, a move that she appreciated deeply. But it did not seem that he completely trusted her yet, either. If he did, why was she still locked in this room?

So how long would it take until she gained his trust completely? Eressëa was willing to wait it out, but she could not afford to start forgetting what Erestor had taught Nymíriel. And so she lay in a fetal position on the mattress, trying to reevaluate all that she had learned. 

The three kinds of Eldar; the Vanyar, golden-haired, the Light Elves, fairest of the Eldar, and most beloved of Manwë and Varda, skilled in poetry and song. They were the only clan of elves to have never lived outside Valinor in large numbers following the migration of the earliest elves to Aman after the awakening at the bay of Cuiviénen under the stars. Ingwë was their king, and the brother of Indis, who was the mother of Finarfin, who was the father of Lady Galadriel, which made him distant kin to Nymíriel as well. The thought was surreal.

The Noldor, perhaps the most prominent in the timeline of Middle Earth, had a convoluted history. After traveling to Aman after the awakening, the Noldor – most of them, that was – had returned to Middle-Earth under the kingship of the ever-infamous Fëanor, son of High King Finwë and the only son of his first wife, Míriel Þerindë, older half-brother of Fingolfin and Finarfin. Perhaps most important, Fëanor was the maker of the Silmarils, those gems for which so much blood had been shed, and so much death had occurred. Frankly, it confounded and fascinated Eressëa greatly to think about. Just how unbelievably beautiful and radiant could those three jewels have been, to prompt so much sorrow?

Fëanor had intended to lead the Noldor back to Middle-Earth in a bid to avenge his father’s death at the hands of Morgoth and reclaim the Silmarils, which the Dark Lord had also stolen. He had required ships to cross the sea separating Aman from Middle-Earth, Eressëa recalled, and had gone to Alqualondë, the city of the Teleri, elves of the sea, demanding use of their swan-ships. The Teleri had refused, matters had become violent, and . . . many of the Noldor massacred the Teleri in their own city, she recalled learning, stealing the ships. It was said that because of such bloodshed and death, the Noldor were cursed by the Valar. Mandos, the Vala of Death, had delivered a promise of doom upon them should they not repent their transgressions and return to Valinor. Finarfin, youngest son of Finwë, half-brother of Fëanor and full brother of Fingolfin because of their shared mother, Indis of the Vanyar, had wanted no part in such bloodshed and had turned around, returning to Valinor and receiving the pardon of the Valar. There he still reigned as king of the Noldor that had chosen to follow him back.

 Yet the Kinslaying of Alqualondë not the end of Fëanor’s spree. He had sailed first with his supporters over the waters of the sea, promising to send the ships back for Fingolfin, his younger half-brother, and Fingolfin’s people. Yet Fëanor had lied; instead of sending the ships back, he had burned them, thinking to send his half-brother back to Valinor in disgrace. Yet Fingolfin, too, had been more stubborn than Fëanor anticipated, it seemed. For, rather than turning back, Fingolfin had led his people through the Helcaraxë, a perilous wasteland of ice that linked northern Aman to Middle-Earth, determined to . . . Eressëa did not know for sure. If it were she in Fingolfin’s place, the desire to deal a good hard uppercut to Fëanor’s (according to legend, quite handsome) face might have been enough to convince her to try her hand at crossing the Helcaraxë. But she could not presume to say she knew Fingolfin’s heart. But whatever his reasons, he and his people had succeeded in arriving in Middle-Earth, though only after great death among their ranks. Apparently, the Helcaraxë was the place of death for Elenwë, wife of Fingolfin’s second son Turgon, and the mother of Idril Celebrindal. And according to Lord Elrond, she was Glorfindel’s sister, as well.

Eressëa paused. Always had she found the three sons of Finwë to be absolutely fascinating figures, despite the fact that they were, technically, all distant relations of Nymíriel. Finarfin was her grandfather, the father of Lady Galadriel, and since Fëanor and Fingolfin were Galadriel’s uncles, such would make them Nymíriel’s great-uncles. Fingolfin in particular was also the maternal great-grandfather of Eärendil the Mariner, who was Lord Elrond’s father. It made him Nymíriel’s great-great-great grandfather. Eressëa’s head spun. Such an odd thing to stomach, in her personal opinion, that elves so ancient, even older than Lady Galadriel, shared such blood ties with Nymíriel. 

Fëanor she felt rather ambivalent about. History suggested he hated his half-brothers for being the sons of Indis, yet Eressëa could not help but wonder; after all, history could seldom be certain about anyone’s true thoughts or feelings. As with Fingolfin, she could not presume to know his mind, but still, she would have liked to believe that no one could truly hate their flesh and blood, their own brothers. She also felt empathy for the eldest son of Finwë; after all, his overwhelming strength of fëa had rendered his mother Míriel drained after his birth, and she had willingly chosen to die, too exhausted to continue living after her son devoured so much of her spirit. Eressëa, too, knew what it was like to lose one’s mother at a young age, and Fëanor had been even younger when Míriel died than Nymíriel when Celebrían sailed west.

Yet at the same time, his actions were quite firmly on the terrible end of the spectrum of conventional morality. A massacre, intentional or not (some sources said the Kinslaying had escalated into the slaughter it became, others said Fëanor had purposefully orchestrated it), was still a horrid thing that Eressëa shuddered to so much as imagine. And leaving his brother and his brother’s people, burning the ships as a way to mock them . . . while not quite as appalling as the Kinslaying, still seemed to leave much to be desired when it came to Fëanor’s kindness of heart. But rather than dismissing Fëanor as a violent beast, Eressëa would rather question what state of mind he had been in when he committed all of those infamous actions. His father, whom he, according to legend, loved more than anything else, had been violently slain, and his prized possessions had been stolen directly under the noses of the Valar. And Fëanor’s quickness to anger and the heat of his fury were the stuff of stories that had lasted for several millennia. One had to question whether he had been completely in his right mind following all the events after Finwë’s murder. And did madness excuse his actions? Or at the least, make them more understandable?

Eressëa wondered what might have occurred, what might have changed in the history of Middle-Earth, had Fëanor lived longer, but the eldest son of Finwë, legendary for his charisma and fiery temper and indomitable spirit, had been killed soon after his people landed in Middle-Earth, mortally wounded by the Lord of the Balrogs, Gothmog. Although, in an almost unfathomable feat of power, according to history at least, Fëanor had held his own against _several_ Balrogs before Gothmog’s interference. His seven sons had then arrived and chased off the Umaiar, but it had been too late to save their father at that point; Fëanor had allegedly burst into flames, cursing Morgoth with his last breath, his spirit so searing, so potent, that upon death his _hröa had been burnt to ashes._

Then there was Fingolfin and Finarfin, the sons of Finwë and Indis. By all accounts, Fingolfin was a courageous and noble elf, whose valiance was unmatched, and Finarfin was intelligent, the wisest of Finwë’s three sons. Eressëa was curious; how had the Noldor felt about the son of a Vanyarin elf, a woman who was not Míriel Þerindë, their first queen? History left no accounts on the any of the Noldor’s feelings concerning their two queens, save for that of Fëanor, whose intense disapproval of the prospect was obvious. As Míriel was their first queen, had some of the Noldor resented Indis, considered her unfit for the position of their queen because there was already one who had taken it? Had there been other Noldor, accepting Indis because Finwë loved and chose her? And how might such opinions have affected Fingolfin and Finarfin? How might they have been treated by the community of the Noldor? Eressëa had no idea. Such things were not addressed in Erestor’s lessons, and when Nymíriel had searched for answers herself, she had found nothing.  

Fëanor’s explosive response to his father’s death had, of course, been recorded and was well-known to all Eldar, but scarcely was their any mention of Fingolfin and Finarfin’s feelings, merely that they had followed their half-brother to avenge Finwë, and that the latter had turned back, appalled by the Kinslaying of Alqualondë. Eressëa wished their sentiments had been noted, as well. As any sons might they would have felt sadness for their sire’s murder, the desire to avenge him. But Finarfin had turned back. What did that say about him? It seemed to Eressëa that introspection and a sense for long-term consequences stayed his hand, more than they stayed the hand of his brothers. And yet, had Finarfin’s decision truly been correct? If he and his faction had accompanied Fëanor and Fingolfin to Middle-Earth, would they have made a difference against the forces of Morgoth? Might the Black Enemy of the World have been defeated sooner, without the need for Eärendil, Elwing and her Silmaril, and the Host of the Valar? If Finarfin had chosen differently, the strength of his people might have saved countless lives. Eressëa did not condemn his decision, for the occurrence of a massacre could no doubt place a damper on one’s conviction that they were doing the right thing, but the possibilities stretched endlessly in front of her, nonetheless.

Finarfin’s children had not followed after their father, however. Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor, and Galadriel had all accompanied their uncle Fingolfin through the Helcaraxë, leaving behind their parents and the lands of their birth. What had driven them so? Was it a sense of adventure? Desire to rule? Curiosity about the soil beyond Valinor? A similar notion as Eressëa’s, that their presence in the Hither Lands had the potential to save lives? _I might have asked Lady Galadriel that when I was in Lothlórien,_ Eressëa thought, peeved at the missed opportunity, _but at the time I had not the presence of mind to do so._

Oddly enough, the next thing to come to mind concerning the three brothers was the manner of Fingolfin’s death, which had always been a topic that overwhelmed Eressëa to think about. Truthfully, the tales of his demise had always haunted her since Nymíriel learned about them around the age of ten years old. Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of the Sudden Flame, had seen the Siege of Angband broken, countless Noldor dead, and the Sons of Fëanor scattered. Upon hearing of the losses, Fingolfin, so consumed with fury and grief at the tragedies of that battle, had rode forth alone to Angband itself, and the servants of Morgoth who saw him had dared not approach him, for in the potency of his rage Fingolfin had looked as one of the Valar. And he had challenged Morgoth to single combat.

They had battled, indeed, an elf, no matter how ancient and powerful, against the mightiest Ainu ever created by Eru. Fingolfin had wounded Morgoth seven times, leaving with him wounds that he would carry for the rest of his existence, but in the end, the High King of the Noldor was felled by Morgoth’s great war-hammer, his body broken to pieces. Then Thorondor, Lord of the Eagles, had borne him to the peak of a mountain overlooking Gondolin, and Turgon, Fingolfin’s second son and Gondolin’s king, had erected Fingolfin’s Cairn over his father’s body. 

It was a heroic tale, charged with emotion and valor and courage, so much so that it almost sounded a fantasy rather than reality. Truthfully, she found it a bit unrealistic for her taste. Eressëa could not imagine being so wroth as to challenge Morgoth, the _mightiest of the Valar_ , all by her lonesome. She did not know if that made her seem craven or sensible. Of course, Fingolfin had received devastating word, for Dagor Bragollach had been truly terrible, but still . . .

Perhaps the High King of the Noldor had succumbed to madness as well. The tales said he was valiant and heroic, and of that Eressëa had no doubt, for his actions spoke for themselves. Yet in those actions, she thought she could see a little madness too. It was not a trait so far from greatness, after all – or so she was told. And truly, could anyone blame Fingolfin for losing reason? His life had not been at all easy; his father killed, his older brother having lied to and betrayed him, his younger brother having chosen a different path, many and more of his people dead crossing the Helcaraxë, and then more and _more_ deaths of those under his kingship during the First Age . . . She wondered if Fingolfin felt that he had failed his people. Was it possible that he had engaged himself in a suicide charge? Had he intended to die, to free himself from all the burdens and sorrows and hardships of being a king, and had only wanted to perish in a useful way, battling the one who was the root of all his grief? It was a morbid thought, but Eressëa did not think it was impossible.

 _It is unfortunate that there is not more information about Finwë’s daughters,_ she thought, annoyed to consider how sidelined and unmentioned they went by most of history. Many of the sources Erestor had taught from, indeed, many of the sources in Middle-Earth in general, had only passing mentions of the daughters of Finwë. Findis, his first daughter, was the eldest child of Finwë and Indis, being Fingolfin’s older sister, and Írimë, his second daughter, was younger than Fingolfin but older than Finarfin. The former sister had accompanied her mother, Indis, back to Valmar after the death of Finwë, wanting no part in her brothers’ mission to reclaim the Silmarils and avenge their father, while the latter had followed said brothers’ path to Middle-Earth. But beyond that, both women vanished from all historical texts that Eressëa had ever read, and the scant amount of information on Findis and Írimë left her unsatisfied and desiring much more. 

For example, what had been their characteristics? Fëanor was a prodigy, hot-tempered, charismatic, indominable, Fingolfin was noble, courageous, and valiant, and Finarfin was fair and the wisest of the three brothers. So what of Findis and Írimë? Free-spirited, perhaps? Perfectionists? Sharp-tongued? Stern? Opinionated? Aside from their existence and their respective decisions following their father’s murder, there was naught said about them, and it deeply frustrated Eressëa. It was not even recorded if Írimë had perished in Middle-Earth or returned to Aman at the end of the First Age. History did not say overmuch about the three brothers as people, really, and Eressëa did not desire are entire textbook in Findis and Írimë, either. She simply wished that there was as much information given about the two daughters of Finwë as there was about his sons.

She was startled out of her musings by a sharp rapping on the door; the sound of knuckles against the wood. “Lady Eressëa,” a female voice called, and she was mildly surprised to hear that already she was being referred to with her new name. Not an hour prior it had been only Thranduil who was aware; she supposed he had some method of spreading news throughout this entire gigantic stronghold. She wondered if Prince Legolas was aware of the change, as well.   

“Yes?” she called out in response, knowing what the other woman was likely going to say but still wondering if her guess was correct. Would King Thranduil truly invite her again to his table as he had been doing for the past two days she had been in Greenwood? After their previous conversation it might have been a very slightly awkward thing . . . but then again, she could not imagine the king to be put off by such trivialities.

“King Thranduil calls you to dine with him again.”

Ah. So her guess had been correct. “I will be right out,” Eressëa replied. “Just a moment, please.” She rolled off the bed ungracefully and fished through the chest, in search of something appropriate to wear to dinner with the royal family. The outfit she was currently clad in, which happened to be the outfit she had been in when shooting those arrows in the arena, which seemed like so ridiculously long ago despite happening that very morning, was rumpled from her sleep.

Eressëa settled on a snowy-white [outfit](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0246/7229/products/Untitled-1_9bdc08a2-8a29-442e-8dd0-ed9d2f408821.jpg?v=1482374474) with short sleeves that fell loosely over her upper forearms, a sash around the waist, and a flowing skirt flaring down to her ankles. It was relatively plain and comfortable, which she appreciated, neither too long nor too short, sewn of light material that did not hinder her mobility. Briefly, she wondered where all of these dresses had come from. As far as she was aware, Thranduil was king, Legolas the prince, and the rest were subjects. There was no aristocratic class in Mirkwood, unlike the hierarchal systems in place in Valinor and the fallen city of Gondolin. So from whence might dresses fit for a noblewoman have originated? Lord Elrond had told Nymíriel that before the fall of Doriath, Thranduil and his father, Oropher, had resided there, under the rulership of Elu Thingol and Melian the Maia. Perhaps he had had some female kin there? If so, the fact that there were no such women here likely indicated that they had perished during the Second Kinslaying. But how had King Oropher and Thranduil managed to bring dresses all the way from Doriath? Why would they bother? Perhaps the outfits came not from Doriath, after all.

Eressëa would have asked, but she and the king (and prince) were not familiar enough with each other to be making or answering such inquiries, so she brushed it off. Plaiting her black hair – still quite tousled from sleep – into a hasty [braid](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/olympians/images/0/06/Calypso-Viria.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20170220201723) as she slipped her feet into the simple leather slippers left at the corner of the room that she had not yet used even once. They fit her well enough, though they were a tad bit large. Finishing interweaving the locks of her hair, it startled her to realize that the ebony tresses extended to her mid-back. If her hair was this length when braided, it must be quite longer than she’d kept track of when loose. 

She opened the door and peered outside into the hall, and her eyes were met with the sight of a tall woman with a creamy-tan complexion, honey-blonde hair tied almost severely into a high ponytail, pale green eyes. Eressëa studied her, curious. This woman was a new face that had not before been tasked with escorting her or keeping watch of her door. Well, Eressëa supposed she had expected it, since she had requested to every elf who called her by the title of ‘lady’ to not do so, and this woman had called her ‘Lady Eressëa’ from outside the door a few minutes ago. The woman had plump, full lips, a round face without hard angles, large eyes, and a nose with a straight bridge, all her features uniting to create a very earthy and solid beauty. Eressëa found it pleasing. “Hello,” she said softly, not for shyness but because the hall was quite silent with only herself and the blonde within its walls.

“Hello,” said blonde replied, smiling. Her voice was rich and full and a tiny hint deeper than what was to be traditionally expected from a female. From the way her eyes crinkled kindly, Eressëa could tell the smile was genuine. She immediately liked the other woman.

“I am called Ristadis,” her new acquaintance introduced herself.

“And you already know my name,” Eressëa said, stating the obvious as she stepped out of the door and closed the door behind her. She joined Ristadis and they began their first steps toward the end of the hall. “But there is no need to address me as a lady, please. Frankly, it makes me uncomfortable.”

“I think I can understand,” Ristadis commented. “Eressëa it is, then.” She paused. “I admit I’m curious about you, Eressëa. It is not often that we have guests in Greenwood, ever since the Third Age’s beginning.” A note of hesitation entered her voice. “Particularly after Queen Faelwen’s death . . . It seemed that King Thranduil decided he preferred to close off his kingdom from the rest of Middle-Earth. He would not turn away a visitor, of course, but we have retreated so fully that no one would want to visit Greenwood in the first place.

“When you arrived and King Thranduil took you in as a guest, placed you in the guest chambers but under lock and key, no one knew exactly what to imagine of the situation,” Ristadis admitted. “I wondered if you were perhaps a threat, for King Thranduil to do so, and I am sure others among us did as well. But the king has invited you to dine with himself and the prince for three consecutive days in a row. I cannot imagine why he would do that if you were dangerous.”

Eressëa remained silent as she and Ristadis descended the steps together, but ensuring that her interest was made obvious by keeping her gaze on the other woman as she talked, looking away occasionally only to steady her footing. She did not think Thranduil would appreciate her telling Ristadis why he invited her to supper with himself and Prince Legolas. After all, she was not even entirely sure of the reason herself. She suspected it was because he wanted to feel her out, assess her and gauge just where she stood, and the past two suppers Eressëa had shared with the king and prince supported that theory, but she would rather not involve others into these more personal matters. Even if she _did_ know for sure, she would not tell. So she simply listened and Ristadis continued to speak.

“It is certainly unusual, and I cannot speak for my king. But I do think King Thranduil is fond of you, Eressëa.”

Eressëa looked at Ristadis, surprised and perplexed. Surprisingly, even to herself, she had not considered what _exactly_ the king’s thoughts on her might be. Naturally, she had inferred that he was not fond of her, since, well, she was a potential unknown variable in his kingdom, and she _had_ been lightly manipulating his son, though not with any ill intent. Any king and father would at least be wary. But he had also comforted her, however awkwardly that might have been, and she had not pondered on his reasons for doing so. Was it out of the desire to give solace to someone who had similarly lost their parents? She could not imagine it was because he had any particularly amiable sentiments toward her. Thranduil, _fond_ of her? Why? How?

Ristadis saw the confusion in her gaze and shrugged her shoulders. “It is only my intuition,” she admitted. “But King Thranduil has always been distant. He seldom interacts personally with others unless it is necessary or he has _some_ affection for them. Personal affection, that is, past the affection of a king and his subject.”

The staircase descended down into a massive chamber with a stone-carved statue of a tall elf in robes, the circlet of a king encircling his brow, several bookshelves pushed against the walls, armchairs and tables and cushions scattered about. An ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling, throwing torchlight across the room. A few other elves were present and occupied by speaking to each other, or sifting through the bookshelves in search of a book, or sitting on a chair and reading. Skipping down another flight of stairs and past the statue (she assumed it must be Elu Thingol, as the face did not resemble Thranduil’s), Eressëa pondered the other woman’s words. She felt the weight of curious stares on her, and from the corner of her eye one youthful-looking male elf was gawking, but she ignored them, her thoughts too focused on what Ristadis had presently told her. Personal affection? Thranduil towards _her_? The thought seemed rather ridiculous as she first turned it over with mental fingers. What cause would the king have to bear personal affection toward her? They might share a longing for parents who had passed, but aside from that, she would not be surprised to hear that the king loathed her. She knew he did not, for his manner did not speak of any extreme hatred, but surely saying he was _fond of her_ was going too far? Then again, it might stand to reason to Ristadis knew her king better than Eressëa did.

The thought gave her pause. She and Thranduil had been at their cat-and-mouse hunt for a few days now, and though she had learned something about him – such as his overprotectiveness of his son and the deaths of his parents – she did not really know overmuch, and she did not think the king knew too much about her, either. Perhaps an outside force would be of assistance . . .

“Ristadis,” Eressëa asked, “Forgive me for being too direct, but is King Thranduil a _good_ king?” In honesty, she was not really being direct at all; her true question was “What do you think of King Thranduil”, but such a way of wording her inquiry seemed to more strongly communicate her ulterior motive and asking, and Eressëa did not want Ristadis to pick up on the fact that she was, in essence, using her for information. That had the potential to make it significantly more difficult to reach her goal of finding out information about the king through her new acquaintance.

Thankfully, Ristadis indeed did not realize Eressëa’s game. There was warmth in her green eyes as she spoke, answering her question, and her voice was solid and absolutely devoid of any kind of uncertainty.

“He is,” the other woman said. “He may seem distant, by words and by demeanor, but his actions speak differently. Just today, in fact, there was an issue with our water system, and King Thranduil helped us find and remedy it. He is always willing to work with all of his subjects, and never thinks of it as beneath him. Many years ago, recently after he ordered all of us to take up residence in this stronghold, the king received a large influx of appeals, requests, and complaints from his people, commenting on the advantages, disadvantages, satisfactions, and dissatisfactions of the sudden move. He remained in his study for four days and nights consecutively, without rest, reading all that was directed toward him, and took care to address every problem and every disappointment about the stronghold.”

Eressëa listened, intrigued. In truth, she found it not at all easy to imagine Thranduil doing such things. Assisting with the fixing of a water pipe? Thinking of the Thranduil that she was familiar with, she was hard-pressed to picture any such image: the king kneeling in front of a broken pipe, examining what was the matter with it, or perhaps fetching the plumbers the items necessary to remedy the issue. No more could she imagine him stooping over a desk in the dead of night, candlelight flickering in the corner of the chamber, reading through letters in various different handwritings, making note after note and musing on what could be improved to better the lives of his people and satisfy them. It was not so much the fact that she thought of Thranduil as incapable of such kindness and devotion to his people, so much as the fact that she had difficulty imagining him going through tasks that were so . . . relatable.

For Nymíriel had often observed Lord Elrond doing similar things, assisting the people of Imladris with their struggles or pushing himself through several days without rest, too occupied with reading something or another. And Nymíriel, and by extension Eressëa herself, was no stranger to physically arduous tasks; chasing a quarry through the forest, in the process often becoming muddied and dirtied, or weaving between bushes after bushes after bushes in search of edible berries, sometimes leaning down to inspect the fruits’ detail as to make sure they were the correct species, or skinning a dead animal, the smell of blood and meat permeating the air and covering her hands as she sliced the knife between hide and the muscle underneath. Dragging a newly killed deer was not an easy task, either. It had also not been an uncommon occurrence for Nymíriel to spend several consecutive days reading, painting, or anything else that interested her, if it was something particularly engaging.

Eressëa knew what hard work felt like. And from what Ristadis was telling her, so did Thranduil. She had suspected, of course, that as king he likely put all his effort into ruling well. After all, Thranduil struck her to be such a person. But it had never occurred to her that they might share a few similar experiences.

“Why do you wish to know?” Ristadis asked as the two of them passed through what was presumably the common room and into another long hall. Her voice was mildly curious, nothing implying that she suspected Eressëa of having any ulterior motive, but Eressëa knew it would do her well to answer the question carefully. “I am rather curious about the king myself,” she admitted. That much, at least, was not a falsehood. “And I am not like to learn much about himself from him, so I turned to you instead. He is indeed distant and from my experience, can be rather harsh. But,” she paused, weighing her words and satisfied with her performance so far. She was not a particularly talkative person, but she was aware that the more she talked the more likely it was that Ristadis would believe her; acting reserved and private about her motivations would only breed suspicion. “He seems very dedicated to his duty as king.” _And as a father_ , she added, though that part was spoken only in her mind.

It was true; Thranduil did seem dedicated to both, although perhaps the latter option was a stronger motivation from what she had seen. (But she was still very aware that she did not know the king well at all, and she did not want to judge such matters so soon.) After all, why else would he keep such strict regulations on her despite knowing her intentions were not outright malicious, just mischievous? It seemed to her that he was acting on the protective feelings of a father wanting to keep any potential trouble, no matter how harmless overall, away from his only child. And she could not really blame him for that, could she?

“I see,” Ristadis nodded. “I think, so far, you have a very accurate image of King Thranduil, Eressëa. He _is_ a dutiful king, I assure you.” The blonde smiled. “And I am glad to see that you do not dislike him. You cannot be happy about the fact that you are apprehended in a chamber by yourself.”

Eressëa shrugged. “Just so. I dislike it more with each passing day, if I am being honest. But King Thranduil is simply being cautious, and he has an entire kingdom that depends on him.” She was truthful, but not entirely open and sharing her thoughts, because what she did not mention was that Ristadis’ phrasing caught her attention in that moment. _‘I think, so far, you have a very accurate imagine of King Thranduil.’_ Meaning that _Ristadis_ knew what the king was like, familiarly and personally? Was she high in his counsel, perhaps? It could not hurt to pinpoint who Thranduil might work closely with. There was a reason that one’s own imagine was at least partially dependent on the people around him or her, after all. If Ristadis and Thranduil were close, in a sense of being more than just a king and his average subject, then Eressëa frankly felt surprised that someone so friendly was confidential to someone so reserved as Thranduil. In hindsight, it was nothing too unusual, but Eressëa still had some difficulty imagining Thranduil and Ristadis meshing well together.

Then again, from her earlier words, it seemed that Ristadis did not know what King Thranduil viewed her as: not a threat to his kingdom, but perhaps a . . . hitch . . . in his relationship with his son, a petty annoyance that he tolerated but would sooner be rid of. But perhaps Thranduil was a kind never to share such opinions with others, even others that were close to him. Eressëa wanted to ask what Ristadis’ relationship with the king was, but that would be a far too obvious, far too suspicious move, and it might raise Ristadis’ guard against her in the future. Ultimately, more pros than cons, at least as far as Eressëa could see, so she remained silent.

“I think you have an eye for seeing the best in people, Eressëa,” Ristadis declared, surprising Eressëa again. It seemed the Silvan woman had a talent for unintentionally catching her off guard.

She continued before Eressëa could ask for elaboration, “Frankly, King Thranduil does not strike a particularly pleasant first impression in anyone, but you do not seem to resent him.”

Wariness crept into Eressëa’s veins. Could this be some test? Was Ristadis trying to bait her into complaining about the king? Or was she being too suspicious? Thranduil was certainly not on her list of the kindest people she had had the pleasure of meeting, but she did not resent him either, and it would do her good to make sure that was understood.

If she stayed silent, would Ristadis take it as a sign that she, in actuality, _did_ resent the king? “I could be hiding my resentment,” she ventured, tentatively taking the bait(?).

Ristadis shrugged, appearing unbothered by the possibility. “You could be,” she agreed, “but I feel that you are not.”

Her response didn’t strike Eressëa as the response of one who had conducted an experiment and gauged an answer, but then, perhaps Ristadis could be skilled at façades as well.

Eressëa wondered if she was reading far too much into everything. She had not realized it herself until now, but being in Greenwood, unfamiliar and unsure of her standing with its king, had played on some unconscious instinct inside Eressëa, prompting her to remain on high alert at an almost constant basis. It was, frankly, a rather exhausting feeling, and the weariness washed over her only in that moment, as she realized her guard had been up at all to begin with. Suddenly, Eressëa wanted to close her eyes and sleep for a very long time, but that would no doubt earn her more than a few questioning looks from Ristadis. So she fought off the abrupt and harsh wave of fatigue that seemed determined to overwhelm her body and mind.

The rest of the trek to the dining hall was companionably silent, and for the first time since her arrival, Eressëa took the opportunity to truly appreciate the design of King Thranduil’s stronghold. It was very different from Imladris; vast and open but still _under_ a roof, while much of Nymíriel’s birth city was built wide open to reveal a truly lovely view of the sky and to allow the wind to brush its gentle fingers through people’s hair and clothes. Greenwood’s stronghold was dimly lit at all times of day, whereas Lord Elrond’s keep in Imladris had sunlight streaming through the clear windows in the mornings and brightly burning, white-hot torches in the nights, kept alive and strong by the lord’s power. Lord Elrond’s household was only ever dark when almost everyone, including the servants, had retired until the morrow.

And whilst Imladris favored smooth white marble, carved and polished stone, materials that had been taken from nature and perfected by hand and skill, Greenwood’s stronghold was almost all the work of Lady Yavanna, more similar to a vast cave system than a built city. Of course, archways and doors had been built to bolster and sophisticate entrances and exits, chandeliers and candles were placed everywhere to provide sources of light, and statues and carpets lined certain rooms for decoration or comfort, but overall? Eressëa remained very much aware that she was inside a creation of nature, not of the skill of the hands of the Eldar. 

One thing that they did have in common, though, was the statues. Imladris was littered with them; stone-carved replicas of ancient elves that Nymíriel, and consequently Eressëa, had only ever heard of through stories and legends. There was Fingolfin, second son of Finwë, from whose house Lord Elrond could in fact trace his lineage. Fingolfin’s two oldest sons, Fingon and Turgon, had statues of their own as well, as did Idril Celebrindal, Turgon’s daughter, and _her_ son, Eärendil the Mariner, who was in fact Lord Elrond’s sire . . . And Thranduil’s fortress was full of statues as well. Elu Thingol, Melian the Maia, Beren Erchamion, Lúthien Tinúviel. Daeron, the most gifted minstrel in all of elven history, surpassing even Maglor, second son of Fëanor. Dior Eluchil, the son of Beren and Lúthien. Elwing, Dior’s youngest child and only daughter, mother of Lord Elrond and Elros, who had kept a Silmaril from the grasp of the Fëanorians, eventually delivering it to her husband Eärendil, so that he might sail to Valinor and implore the Valar’s assistance against Morgoth.

It had always been something of a habit for Eressëa: when she saw such statues, she became curious about the very real people behind them. She wondered if that was simply her, or a reaction that most had to seeing imitations of beings that had truly existed in their world. As far as she could remember, to her, it was simply an odd concept, converting an entity, a creature with a personality, motivations, characteristics, to merely a fancy carving from stone. The statues were magnificently carved, no doubt about that, but she wondered why people felt the need to try to capture the likeness of a person, flesh-and-blood, hröa and fëa, into a cold, unmoving duplicate. They did not and could never contain the _essence_ of who that person was, and she could not help feel that a better way to remember someone as who they had been was through stories rather than statues. Unless the artists of the sculptures were simply intending for them to be aesthetically pleasing? They _were_ certainly that . . .

“We are here,” Ristadis announced, and as Eressëa came back to reality at the sound of the other woman’s voice, she found herself recognizing the space surrounding the dining hall of Thranduil’s fortress. The familiar double doors loomed before her, guards posted at either side, and she realized that trepidation no longer tore through her veins at the prospect of seeing the king again. For better or worse, their conversation in her guest room, his attempt to offer her solace despite not particularly liking her, had made her more comfortable with him. She wondered if the king perhaps felt the same.  

Bidding Ristadis farewell, Eressëa approached the doors. As she neared the guards opened them, once more revealing the lavish supper table. The king was seated at the head leaning against the back of his tall chair, already watching her. He wore the same rich, silvery-grey robes that he had worn when speaking to her in her chamber, but his hair was now in a loose braid, likely to prevent it from obstructing his eating. His blue gaze appeared to be as unreadable as ever to her, as if nothing had ever passed between them except cold courtesy, and his posture all but seeped with self-confidence. He looked every bit the removed, detached, and indifferent king that first impressions likely presented him to be.

And then there was his son, staring at her with his eyes a little too wide to be considered normal. Legolas’ white-blonde hair was loose about his shoulders, and his blue eyes gleamed in the candlelight. He was clad in a simple brown tunic and presumably trousers and boots, although Eressëa could not see his legs on account of the dining table. The pulse of fondness, subtle but not unnoticeable, that flitted through Eressëa surprised her, although in hindsight, perhaps it should not have. Just that morning she had been thinking of Legolas on affectionate terms, after all.

He was staring at her blatantly, and although she was not unused to attention from young males, Eressëa felt the slightest bit bashful. She was abruptly and acutely aware of her clothing; the flowing sleeves that left her forearms and a fair bit of her upper arms, bare, the neckline that hung _just_ low enough to leave everything to the imagination ( _how_ had she failed to notice that before?), the sash tied around her waist and revealing the outline of her figure, and the light, flowing material of the skirt that flared outward past the sash. She had never worn a true dress in Legolas’ presence before. _Perhaps I should have worn a hunting tunic rather than . . . this,_ she thought, battling against her self-consciousness and taking her usual seat across from the prince.

As she pulled back her chair and lowered herself into it, he seemed to snap out of his stupor, and his eyes fell to his plate. Eressëa’s brows furrowed ever-so-slightly at the sight, bafflement washing over her. Suspicious, she angled her head toward the king and greeted him, as an excuse to gauge him as well. Thranduil met her eyes and returned her greeting, as curt and distantly polite as ever, but the mere glance they shared was enough for Eressëa to identify that it was _tension_ hovered around father and son, akin to some ugly bird searching for a free meal.

She might have frowned, but she did not want the prince or the king to get the impression that she had noticed the discord between them. Still, that did not prevent her mind from wandering in the least. Had Thranduil and Legolas had some sort of disagreement? They had appeared completely fine and at ease together when she had last seen them, which was just this morning. What in the name of the Valar could have happened to make their dynamic so different so suddenly?

Eressëa absentmindedly watched as Thranduil elegantly sunk the prongs of his fork into a thin slice of deer meat, brought it to his mouth, and ate, and then just as mindlessly took her own first bite – a piece of sausage – still occupied with her mind’s rapid attempts to puzzle her way to the reason for Thranduil and Legolas’ sudden awkwardness. This morning . . . she recalled the ire in Legolas’ eyes, his reaction to his father’s declaration that she had passed the _first_ stage of his test, and nothing more. Evidently, Legolas _wanted_ her to teach him archery, but surely not so much that Thranduil’s reveal of more tests to come had opened a rift so noticeable between father and son? The tension about them was not like that of two people who had had a simple argument. It was as if something very personal and shared between only them had suddenly been compromised. Eressëa knew that tension, for Nymíriel had felt it a fair amount around her own father.

But what could that personal matter be? Frankly, the mere thought of trying to identify _that_ made Eressëa’s head spin from the force and sheer _volume_ of all the possibilities that spawned in her mind’s eye, so she quickly dismissed the curiosity. It was not something she could deduce with the information that she had, and she was not looking to pry into private issues between father and son. They could handle such things themselves, and Eressëa more than hoped it of them – she _expected_ it, considering that the father was several millennia old and the son was at least her age, if not older. The both of them should be far past mature enough to resolve their problems through a substantive discussion. Admittedly, not all parent-child disagreements could be mended with words (she would know well; after all, why else would Nymíriel not be in Imladris?), but if they could stand to be in each other’s presence, then this particular one could be resolved that way.

And Eressëa hoped they would make quick haste in doing so. Leaving personal issues alone for long made them fester and rot, not fade away. She would not like to see another relationship between a parent and a child crumble past the point of no return. Once in a lifetime was more than enough.

The supper grew longer and still no one said a word. Thranduil and Legolas refused to so much as glance at each other, like children locked in the midst of a petty battle of wills. Truthfully, it was beginning to irritate Eressëa the slightest bit. _Valar forbid you have the consideration to even_ try _to avoid making my meal, at the very least, awkward,_ she thought, the compulsion to glare at Thranduil rising, slow but steady. If he knew that supper would be so uncomfortable, why did he have to invite her as well, to be caught in the disagreement? Or had this disagreement, whatever it was, occurred _while_ they were waiting for her to arrive at the table? But she was knowledgeable in the signs of a very recent fight, physical, verbal, or emotional, and she saw none of them in Thranduil and Legolas. Just the strained and faked detachment that came in the distant aftermath, two people wanting to talk to each other but afraid that the other would refuse to talk back.

In any case, Eressëa felt uncomfortable, that she could not deny. Normally she might have simply borne the discomfort and finished her meal, but she wanted to become more acquainted with Prince Legolas. She might give him archery lessons, after all, and it would do her good to be at least somewhat familiar with her pupil. Besides, perhaps, they could be friends.

So she spoke. “Prince Legolas,” she started, keeping her voice soft and quite unobtrusive. It had been so silent and so filled with tension in the dining hall that she suspected being too loud might startle both the prince and the king, and that was not what she was looking to do.

Despite her efforts, however, it appeared Legolas was startled by her sudden words anyway. His eyes turned toward her with too sharp and too jerky a movement to _not_ give the impression of surprise, and Eressëa stifled her urge to giggle, even though the very space around the three of them was anything but humorous.

The prince truly _was_ endearing.

From her peripheral vision, she felt Thranduil’s attention settle on her as well, likely wondering why she was deciding to speak in the midst of this silence. But his gaze was different this time.

Eressëa was not sure if she was surprised or not to realize that much of the hostility and suspicion that Thranduil had been so fond of pinning her with was gone from his gaze. Perhaps their conversation earlier had stirred some sense of sympathy for her in him. One could go as far as to say it was pity, but Eressëa doubted that. It was hard for her to believe that Thranduil, someone who knew exactly how devastating it felt to lose one’s parents (albeit not in exactly the same fashion as Eressëa had), would feel pity, something she considered to essentially be benevolent _scorn,_ towards a person who had suffered the same.

Flicking aside her thoughts of the new development in her relationship with the king, Eressëa gave Legolas her full attention. He was still staring at her as she offered him a friendly smile.

It was not lost on her that she had become much more talkative since arriving in Greenwood and interacting with its king and its prince. At Imladris, Nymíriel had been quieter, more withdrawn, because there had been no need to be outgoing or be the one to instigate any social interaction. All of the people around her had been her family or those she was close or at least familiar with, and there was no need for her to try to become acquainted with them.

In Greenwood, though, dealing with its bashful prince who was so clearly infatuated with her, Eressëa recognized that if she wanted to get anywhere with Legolas, it must needs be her who approached him first. After a moment of consideration, she settled on a topic to open conversation on. Legolas was polite, as far as she was aware, which made things simpler; even if he disliked her subject matter, he would likely still respond with some amount of enthusiasm. Still . . .

“Are you fond of music?” Eressëa asked, taking care to keep her voice amicable yet otherwise unreadable. In Legolas’ state of tension, she felt that a prudent course of action would be to take care and be mindful of his feelings. People were, after all, not at their most content after grave disagreements with their parents. No matter how courteous Prince Legolas was, that was a general rule that applied to him, as well.

To her mild surprise, however, Legolas was very receptive to her metaphorical offered hand and grasped it eagerly, clearly desiring to strike conversation. Then again, she suspected it had less to do with his personality or his genuine interest in music, and more to do with his relief at the opportunity to distract himself from the rigidity between himself and his father. No one liked to be forced to dwell on their troubles, after all. Especially when that trouble, a grave disagreement between single parent and single child, had the power to take so much toll on one’s emotional state. A mere argument between parent and child had the tendency to leave both sides regretful; Eressëa knew this well, and she imagined that the effect was only exacerbated when the parent was the only parent the child had ever known, and the child was the only child that the parent had.

“I am, Lady Lal – Eressëa.” So quite clearly the news of her name had spread (Ristadis had known it as well), although just how much, Eressëa could not say, and she doubted it was very far. Not much time had passed since she had chosen it and claimed to Thranduil that it was her real name – which, at this point, it was. But if Legolas knew, had his father informed him? So they had been on speaking terms when and a little bit after she and King Thranduil had conversed? _Then whatever disagreement parted them like this, it must have been very recent, correct?_ Or had Legolas heard the name ‘Eressëa’ from another source?

Adjacent to both of them, Thranduil reached forward to spear a cherry tomato with the prongs of his fork, with slightly more force than strictly necessary; at least, Eressëa thought so. Perhaps Legolas’ line of thought was similar, as well, for he flinched. It was an infinitesimal movement, nearly nonexistent, but Eressëa noticed it regardless.

Taking pity on the prince’s clear discomfort, she placed her elbow on the polished wood of the table and let her long fingers curl under and around, propping her chin in the palm of her hand and fixing an idle gaze on Legolas. It was a tactic that Eressëa found to often be effective in pulling the object of her focus’s attention to solely her, and it was especially successful when that object of her focus was a young elf who was clearly enamored with her, at least temporarily. And as a finishing touch, she narrowed her eyes very slightly, toeing the line of fluttering her lashes at Legolas, though not quite crossing _that_ boundary.

And she was correct, for Legolas’ reaction was instantaneous and – dare she say it – _adorable._ His lips parted in a small ‘o’ shape, his eyelashes dipped up and down in quick succession with his flustered blinking, his gaze dropped from her face to the plate in front of him, and his pale cheeks flushed a shade of light pink. The openness with which he expressed his infatuation was a darling thing indeed, she thought fondly. And it was satisfying to note that she had clearly distracted him from whatever discord had arisen between himself and his father.

“What kind of music?” She made sure that her tone remained casual and firmly away from hinting at any sort of suggestiveness. As very slightly flirtatious as she was being, Eressëa did not intend to give Legolas ideas. He was handsome and she certainly did not dislike him, but any feelings with more gravity would only complicate matters. Besides, they barely even knew each other.

The conversational undertone of her voice seemed to help him relax. “I enjoy listening to the harp and the flute, my lady.” His rigid posture from scarcely a minute ago was gone. Good.

“I should tell you,” Eressëa said, “that I am no lady. I have never been raised as one, you see. I would prefer you simply call me by my name, Prince Legolas.” A lie. She _had_ been raised a lady – most certainly, she had, and she loved it and resented it in equal measure. Loved because she enjoyed music, she enjoyed singing and dancing and weaving and painting and sewing, and she enjoyed the beautiful outfits that had been showered upon her throughout her life. Resented because she was ever acutely aware of the startled stares that came her way when she rode into Imladris in a hunting tunic and a pair of trousers and boots, a sword and knife sheathed at her side, her bow and quiver of arrows slung over her back, covered in dirt, hair matted and tangled and in need of a thorough bath. She had always hated those stares. Not all of them were outright _judgmental_ (although some no doubt were), but all of them were _curious,_ as if they had come across an utterly peculiar and unnatural sight. A lady, a daughter of Lord Elrond, streaked with soil, leaves tangled in her hair, clothes torn and dirty. _How odd,_ those stares seemed to say.

She dismissed the flow of nostalgia and sorrow that threatened to overtake her at the recollections. Not the time. With King Thranduil seated just adjacent to her, she did not dare let anything slip through. He might attribute it to simply grief for her supposed dead parents, but she was not willing to take risks. Eressëa was confident that the king believed her story, she was confident that he believed in the existence of Eressëa, but she was not so foolish as to think that she would now never come under his suspicions again. It was still a very possible thing, and a very unpleasant thing. Being so blatantly distrusted by Thranduil was quite tiring, and it was not a situation that she was eager to find herself in once again.

Legolas appeared the slightest bit taken off guard by her request. Hesitation glimmered in his clear blue eyes, and Eressëa did not fail to notice that his gaze flitted briefly to his father. If she had to guess, she would say that he was wondering if he had Thranduil’s approval to drop the formality of titles with her. Curious, she glanced toward the king as well, but he seemed not to care.

 _Seemed_ ; Thranduil was adept at hiding his emotions. Perhaps he did not like the idea after all, and, given his personality and protectiveness, Eressëa was well convinced that he did not, but no such sentiment showed. She focused on Legolas again, wondering how he would take his father’s supposed apathy.

For a moment, the hesitation lingered in his eyes, but then his gaze hardened in a way that she had never before associated with the prince. The stare with which he leveled his father was almost _resentful_ , and it gave Eressëa pause. What might have possibly torn such a rift between the two? The thought made her uneasy.

“Eressëa I shall call you, then,” Legolas declared purposefully, switching his gaze from Thranduil and back to her. “And please, call me Legolas. I would prefer it as well.” His request was punctuated with a smile – an unconvincing one, to be frank, for it was obviously his attempt to look confidently charming and not . . . unsure of what he was doing, as he looked in reality. Nevertheless, the attempt in itself surprised Eressëa. With it, he no longer seemed to be curling ever-so-slightly backwards into himself even as she spoke to him.

Suddenly, he seemed so much more eager – yes, that was the correct word, _eager_ – to engage with her. Eressëa had her suspicions as to why, and they did not bode well. Yet, the conclusion she had arrived at made sense. Legolas’ brief stare at Thranduil. The defiance flashing in his gaze. The tense air that made some sort of discord between father and son obvious. Legolas’ sudden change in demeanor. She could only guess that in Legolas’ frustration towards the king, he had made the conscious decision to become closer to her for the sake of going against Thranduil. After all, the king did not bother hiding that he was not exactly keen on any close relationship between Legolas and Eressëa, and Legolas intended to defy that. At least, that was what she was making of the situation.

And she did not like it. It reminded her all too much of Nymíriel and Lord Elrond. Currently father and son were at the stage of carelessly lashing out at each other in a rash, hasty attempt to make the other party feel some sort of regret for their disagreement. That might all be a natural part of the process of mending their relationship again, but Eressëa feared that, without intervention, the situation would escalate past the point of no return.

 _That_ was not something she cared to see. It was not something she _wanted_ to see, not after Nymíriel and her father. Yet Eressëa could do nothing. There were boundaries she was wary of crossing, and trying to intervene in such a weighty matter between a father and a son was one of them. Especially a father and a son that she did not know all that well. So, despite the urge to comment, she refrained from any words about that particular topic and instead continued the flow of her conversation with Legolas.

“Legolas it is, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew - it's been a while since I updated. This chapter was in progress for a pretty long time, and since my schedule has recently gotten packed again, I'm unsure of when I'll next be able to post. That said, if you're still willing to follow the story, I'd be grateful. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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